


justice runs in crimson rivers

by FrostyChess (chesswatchesclouds)



Series: One-Shot Collections [2]
Category: Assassin's Creed
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Drabble, Drabble Collection, Gen, Modern Assassins, One Shot Collection, Title from the Miracle of Sound song
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-06
Updated: 2018-01-13
Packaged: 2018-09-14 20:47:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 16
Words: 43,772
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9202550
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chesswatchesclouds/pseuds/FrostyChess
Summary: a series of one-shots featuring characters from ac3 and ac rogue





	1. Bitter [Connor]

You’d think you’d be used to this by now.

You’re no assassin, after all, but it’s just so _easy_ to feel inadequate next to the others when they _are_. They’re so elegant, so deadly, so _capable_ , and you’re always just standing here, watching, watching, _watching_.

And Connor spends so much _time_ with them too, going over techniques and tactics while you stand here in silence. You barely see him nowadays, so preoccupied as he is with rebuilding the brotherhood and making sure the pieces fall into place.

Honestly, it’s no wonder you’re so miserable lately. Why wouldn’t you be? You’re so _lonely_ and so _angry_ ; furious, really, because you’ve been here since the beginning, since before everyone else, yet you seem to be the one who’s suffering for it. Connor won’t even let you hold a knife unless it’s for cooking – it’s like he’s _afraid_ or something – but there he is, _with them_ (with _her_ ), showing them how to use the rope dart, showing them the best way to strike with their hidden blades.

You start to wonder if there’s something wrong with you, something he sees in them that he can’t see in you. Is there something preventing him from granting you permission to train, to _learn_?

You turn away from the scene with an irritated sigh, storming to your room for some peace and quiet and a good book, and if you’re a little more hostile towards everyone (to Connor _especially_ ), what does it matter anyway?

* * *

It only gets worse from there.

Achilles starts to notice the turn in your mood where Connor does not, despite his students keeping their distance – especially Ettie and Carla – and this certainly _does not_ help. Achilles keeps to his chair in the lounge, speaking only when you enter to tend to the fire, and even then his words are clipped and his sentences short and diplomatic. He’s Connor’s mentor, after all, and while you might not be angry with the old man, any words he says to try and defend the big oaf and his initiates will surely not be taken well.

To further worsen your mood, Achilles agrees with you that Connor has no idea what he’s done.

(He hasn’t done anything, technically, but you’re angry with him regardless and he needs to _fix it_.)

Connor has left with Achilles for Boston and the _idiot_ – because _really_ , who _does_ this? – has left Ettie in the Homestead to _watch over you_. As if you _need_ watching over.

(And even if you _did_ , he should know better than to have one of _them_ do it.)

They giggle and fawn over him and, _really_ , are they five-year-old girls or assassins? You’re adamant he’s done it on _purpose_ , left you alone in this large house with _her_ , of all people – is he _trying_ to rub it in? – and you’re close to kicking her out you’re that annoyed.

But it’s not _her_ fault, no matter how much you wish it is; it’s _his_ fault, _his_ fault for not realising what he’s doing and what he continues to do, _his_ fault for not understanding how _jealous_ (god you hate that word) you are.

As if he doesn’t spend enough time with his initiates already – he has to ask the rest of them to accompany him to Boston. All of them except _Ettie_.

The other woman is quiet and stern looking and she doesn’t say anything to you, content to sit silently in the chair across from yours. The fire burns brightly in the hearth and the only sound is the crackling and snapping of the licking flames across the logs. You’re trying to read a book but you’re finding it difficult – impossible, even – to concentrate with the other woman staring at you so intently.

“He cares about you, y’know,” she says after a moment, disturbing the silence and forcing your eyes to her.

“Pardon?”

“Master Kenway,” Ettie says, “er, the Mentor, that is.”

“Yes,” you say, shaking your head lightly, “I know who you’re referring to.”

“Good.” She pauses and swallows. Then she adds, “I get it, y’know. You’re _jealous_ –“

“I am _not_ ,” you cut in, offended and bitter but she looks at you pointedly, in much the same way Achilles had when he’d told you the same thing and you fall silent again, staring at the fire.

You deliberately ignore anything else she says.

* * *

He storms into your room later that evening, as snow batters the window and you’re laying out your nightclothes on the bed. You book lies on the nightstand, open at the page you’re on and ready for you to pick it right back up.

“Tell me,” Connor demands, his broad frame blocking the doorway, “what troubles you.”

“Nothing,” you bite back, bitterly, angrily. “Please leave. I have to get ready for bed.”

“Do not lie to me,” he says and he steps closer, crowding you in your own room, and your spine steels as your angry glower meets his confused and concerned scowl. “We have not spoken in –“

“We spoke this morning,” you jibe irritably, turning your back on him.

“We have not spoken _properly_ in days.” He pauses and you think you see him start to reach for you out the corner of your eye, only for him to seemingly decide against it and draw his hand away. “Please, tell me what is wrong.”

“What is wrong,” you echo. “What a can of worms you want to open, Connor.”

“I do not –“

“Perhaps, Connor,” you say, talking loudly over his low timber of a voice and the snow lashing against your window still, “ _perhaps_ we haven’t spoken properly in weeks because you can’t be bothered tearing your attention away from _Ettie_ or _Carla_ or –“

You fumble for other names but come up empty – those two are the only ones who linger in your mind, the only ones who test your patience and invoke your envy.

“I thought we had discussed this,” Connor says with a heavy sigh, his shoulders slumping in exhaustion. “They are my students –“

“And what a great deal of _attention_ they receive from their mentor compared to the others!”

“That is false,” defends Connor, and perhaps he’s right but now your mind is foggy with your anger. “I do not –“

“Get out Connor,” you sigh tiredly, waspishly. “I just want to read my book in peace.”

“No,” he returns, hotly, “we are going to –“

“If you won’t leave,” you snap stupidly, reaching for your coat and slipping into your boots, “then _I_ will.” You don’t tie up the laces or snap together the buttons and you storm past him with as much dignity as you can muster in your state.

Doors fall shut softly as you step into the hallway and you hear whispers behind them, worried voices of eavesdroppers, and Connor calls your name as you take the stairs two at a time. He says it again as you tug open the front door, as cold winds assault your body and snow pierces your skin as effectively as any knife.

You don’t realise you’re crying until a large hand tugs you back, until all is quiet and the door is firmly closed once more. He’s warm where you’re freezing, shivering from the brief ounce of courage you’d felt opening the door, and you grip tightly to his shirt as he holds you tightly to him. Apologies are on your lips, whispered against his chest as you sniffle quietly. You’re so tired now, your limbs heavy and your eyes drooping and _oh_ , why did you think it was a good idea to fight so late again?

He sweeps you off your feet and into his arms, carrying you deftly back to your room and lying with you until you fall asleep.

In the morning, there will be a long and overdue talk. In the morning, a fresh blanket of snow will lie undisturbed on the ground until after breakfast, when Connor’s students will reawaken their inner child and challenge him to a snowball fight.

Right now though, the snow is still loud as it threatens to break through the glass pane. Right now, you’re content to forget the problems from the past few days and stay right here, nestled against Connor’s side where you’re warm and protected.

(You’ll complain in the morning about the state of your clothes, wrinkled as they will become from sleeping in them.)

* * *

(No you won’t.)

* * *

For being a skilled hunter, Connor is remarkably _bad_ at snowball fights.

It’s good revenge for the jealousy you’ve felt over the past few weeks.


	2. Reunion [Shay Cormac]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _It’s a man, tall and broad-shouldered, with dark hair pulled away from his face. There’s a scar that starts above his eyebrow and ends at his cheek and you’re tired and miserable and frightened and ready to scream because he’s just stepped out of the scary car and he might be about to kill you._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> modern au with cameo character appearance!
> 
> requested by brookie4cookies on tumblr

Everything is going wrong.

Your ride has bailed on you with a quick, completely unsympathetic text, and you’re so far out of the city that it will take _hours_ to walk back.

(An exaggeration, you think, but it’s just started raining and you’re miserable and alone and if you think it will take hours, there’s no one around to disagree with you anyway.)

But even if you’re miserable and you feel like you’re going to cry any second, you’ve never been one to back down from a challenge, so you start walking.

Just in time for the rain to fall harder, for the wind to pick up and start battering you from every side, and when all of this is over you’re going to be smitten with the cold or the flu and it’s all that one _stupid_ friend’s fault.

“Who agrees to give someone a ride,” you mutter angrily, but you can hardly hear yourself over the howling wind, “and then backs out at the last minute?”

 _That person_ apparently.

You remember there was a station not too far down the road – but then _not too far_ , roughly translates to fifteen minutes by _car_ and you’re walking so who knows how long that will take? – and you’re starting to formulate a plan when a car speeds past you.

You can hardly believe your luck at first, but then you remember that you’re _you_ and these things always happen. On top of being cold and miserable, you’re now soaked to the bone and getting wetter, and there are curse words on your lips and daggers in your eyes and right when you’re about to shout your frustration _another_ car zooms past and you’re drenched again.

Tears finally begin to fall, though you can hardly feel them against the rain that pelts your face, and you rub your hands up and down your arms, seeking warmth that you can’t seem to find in this ungodly weather. Why, oh _why_ , did you think it was a good idea to leave without a jacket?

( _Oh, yes, because you were supposed to be getting a ride back_!)

You sniffle and wipe fruitlessly at your eyes, wishing you could pull yourself together and wishing that you had better friends. You’re really tired of the plans you’ve had set in place for _weeks_ being suddenly dashed to pieces and you’re tired of accepting less than honest apologies from those you call _friend_. They never mean it, after all, and you’re so afraid of being alone that you accept it anyway.

Another set of headlights pass you by, another car zooming past you without a care.

You can’t seem to find it in yourself to walk fast in this weather and at this rate you won’t be home until late evening – you’re not even sure what time it is _now_ and you’re shaking so bad that you don’t think you’ll manage to get out your phone and check. It’s late afternoon, at _least_ , you think, because while it’s dull and grey, it’s not dark, not yet, so you have some time to get into the bright lights of home before it’s too dark for you to see anything. Or worse, before it’s too dark for the cars on this road to see you.

 _That_ would be the _perfect_ end to your day, you think, to be hit by a car in the middle of the night because they can’t see you. If you don’t freeze to death before then.

(God, you’re a right cheery soul, aren’t you?)

(But then, to be fair, there’s not really much to be cheery _about_ , is there?)

The car that pulls up beside you five minutes later is sleek and black, with tinted windows and you’ve seen enough thriller movies to know that accepting a ride from whoever is within will only end badly for you. You’re content to keep walking, despite how badly you’re shivering, because everything about the vehicle practically _screams_ ‘don’t trust me’ and then the door opens and someone steps out.

It’s a man, tall and broad-shouldered, with dark hair pulled away from his face. There’s a scar that starts above his eyebrow and ends at his cheek and you’re tired and miserable and frightened and ready to _scream_ because he’s just stepped out of the scary car and he might be about to kill you.

“Are you alright?” he asks instead, and there’s an Irish lilt to his voice that you don’t expect and a gentle look in his eyes that you _recognise_ but can’t place.

You nod shakily – because even if something familiar tugs at the back of your mind – you’re still not sure if he can be trusted. There’s something about the way he’s looking at you in turn though that gives you pause – he seems to be considering something, frowning as he lifts a hand to shield his eyes from the rain.

And there is something about this stranger that makes you consider him in turn – namely that he doesn’t _feel_ like a stranger. There’s something about the gentleness of his gaze that reminds you of a boy you knew in school; snotty Shay Cormac, with the barely-there moustache and the eyes of the ladies on him always. You could never understand it, what they saw in him, and you got along well enough with him (even during his moments where all he could talk about was the women he’d slept with) and had even nursed a tiny, festering crush on the boy.

After graduation he’d left to work for some company with one of his friends – _Lee? Liam_? You’re not quite sure – and then there had been rumours about him and you’d heard nothing else.

The wind howls and blink rapidly to clear your vision as the rain starts to fall heavier. In the distance, thunder rumbles and you don’t want to be out in the open if there’s a storm coming. You’re not sure how far you’ve managed to walk; a quick glance over your shoulder shows no station in sight like you’d planned, and if this strange man is offering you a lift, you think you’re not really in any position to refuse.

 _That_ would be an interesting story too, death by lightning because your friend couldn’t be bothered coming to pick you up as promised.

The familiar stranger starts to speak and his cut off by another voice from inside the car, cultured and English.

“Shay, do be quick about this,” he says, “you’re getting the upholstery wet.”

It takes you a few seconds to understand what’s been said and you blink owlishly at the man – _Shay Patrick Cormac_ , _the very same boy from school who never seemed to notice you_ – and you can _see_ it now; he’s broader, stronger than he was in school, and you’ve no doubt that he’s been in plenty fights since leaving. The scar had appeared intimidating when he first stepped out of the car but now you’re only curious; what happened? It must have been quite the severe wound-

“Shay?” you repeat, loudly, over the wind, and you see the wariness on his face, see it transform into delighted recognition, and _wow_ , that’s confusing, you didn’t think the two of you were _that_ close.

He says your name, sounding as elated as he looks, and then he’s shedding the heavy looking coat he wears and approaching you, setting it over your shoulders. You start to protest – you’re absolutely _soaking_ , after all, the jacket is so nice, you don’t want to ruin it, but he has none of it.

“Yer shiverin’,” he says and with an arm around your shoulders he guides you to the car.

The inside is just as impressive as the outside and across from you sits another man who seems to somehow _match_ the voice you’d heard – dark hair and a navy blue suit, watching you curiously as you study him warily, with a face that’s all angles and high cheekbones.

He inclines his head to you indifferently and as soon as Shay closes the door, the car moves, smoother than any vehicle you’ve been in before.

Shay provides quick introductions and you learn that the man across from you – who has turned his attention to the tinted windows, disinterested – is his boss, Haytham Kenway.

 _That_ ’s a surprise – you’ve heard of the Kenway’s and their company and you can’t help but think Shay seems to have done alright for himself to be working for their CEO, especially when all he could talk about in school was working with… what’s his name?

You grab Shay’s jacket and tug it a little closer to yourself, feeling colder now that you’re in the warmth of the car, and your hair drips onto the seats and your already sodden clothes. The shoulders of Shay’s shirt are damp just from a couple of seconds without his jacket and his hair drips just like yours.

“How have you been?” you brave asking, wary of the silence in the car and of the (in)famous CEO across from you. He exudes authority but when your eyes dart nervously towards him, you see his lips are quirked up in amusement. He doesn’t turn his gaze away from the window, nor the passing and uneventful scenery.

“Er, good,” replies Shay. The awkwardness of the atmosphere isn’t lost on either of you, it seems.

“Good,” you say because you’ve nothing else to really add.

There’s an uncomfortable silence that stretches for longer than you like, broken only by Haytham Kenway clearing his throat and asking for your address.

Alarmed, you say, “Oh, no, that’s really not necessary. Just drop me off at the nearest bus stop-“

“Nonsense,” says the CEO, as though the very thought itself is intolerable.

You look helplessly to Shay but he seems to agree with his boss, and you reluctantly tell Kenway your address. He presses a button and behind your head the screen descends. You’re so amazed by this that you don’t even pay attention to the conversation; you’ve never been in a car this fancy and professional before and when you turn your head you find Shay watching you with some amusement.

A flush creeps across your cheeks at being so blatantly caught and meekly you murmur your ‘thank you’ to Haytham Kenway and pray that you don’t see anyone you know when you get out of the car. That’s something you _don’t_ need; emerging from this car will demand answers to questions you’re not sure you’re willing to give.

After all, you’re still trying to wrap your head around the fact that you let Shay guide you into this car in the first place – and that Haytham Kenway let you stay at all. From what you’ve heard of the CEO, he’s not known for being _nice_.

Well at least you have something to tell your _friend_. After all, it’s not every day you’re rescued by an old – _friend_? – school mate and his boss and driven home in said boss’ super cool and fancy car.

It will make a good story anyway, if a little unbelievable.

“What were ye doin’ so far from home?” asks Shay and you swallow nervously, fidgeting in your seat as you shrug.

“I – er…”

In such company as this, you feel silly admitting that you had a job interview – which was then _cancelled_ with little notice, adding to your monumentally _shitty_ day – but you’ve never been good at thinking on the spot and honesty is the best policy, isn’t that the saying?

“I had a job interview,” you say quietly and you hope that’s the end of it. You’re not sure you can take talking about it seeing how well Shay is doing for himself and you’re already cold and miserable, you don’t want to add bitter to that list too.

Shay, thankfully, seems to pick up on your tone.

“Ah,” he says.

You nod because you’ve nothing else to add. As if job hunting wasn’t bad enough, you’re pretty sure you’re going to be unable to make the next payment of your rent, which will then lead to you being evicted, which will then mean you’re homeless, which will mean you’ll _starve_ -

You swallow and grip the sleeve of Shay’s coat in a white knuckled grip, trying to keep at bay the tears that had stopped when the car pulled to a stop beside you, trying to stop yourself from thinking these thoughts that have given you so many sleepless nights. Worrying isn’t going to get you anywhere; you need to _act_. Sitting on your ass and crying about your problems isn’t going to provide the solution.

The car rolls smoothly to a stop and you can’t help but feel that it’s completely out of place in this neighbourhood, _your_ neighbourhood, and god forbid your nosey neighbour poke out their nose as your emerge from the car; you’re _so_ not in the mood to deal with anyone now. You really just want to take a nice hot shower, cosy up under your duvet, stick on a film and eat some ice cream.

You really just want to nurse your wounded ego after the mess that has been this day and try again tomorrow.

You mutter a quiet thank you to Haytham Kenway – and there is no way you’re going to be able to look at the man’s picture now without thinking that they don’t do him justice in the slightest – and slide slowly from the car. You’re still wearing Shay’s jacket but when you turn to hand it back, you find that the man himself is exiting the car and striding towards you.

It’s been a while since you’ve had this kind of attention from _anyone_ and it’s… nice.

He escorts you to your door, ever the gentleman you remember him to be, and you’re waiting for some part of the arrogant, flirty boy you know from high school to come through. You’re waiting to be disappointed, you realise, because leopards can’t change their spots, and it hasn’t been _that_ long since you saw one another.

But instead the man before you is nothing but considerate and thoughtful and, dare you say it, _mature_.

“It was nice seein’ ye,” he comments, and the rain has eased up some, catching in his dark hair like specks of glitter.

“And you,” you return. Conversation feels easier now that you’re out of the car, away from the intimidating indifference of Haytham Kenway. You swallow and gather what little courage you have to say, “We should grab lunch sometime. Catch up.”

You try not to think about the fact that you have _no money_ to grab this lunch you’re offering.

His answering smile is perhaps the only thing that hasn’t changed in the years since you’ve seen him. Now that you’re out of the car and not quite so worried about his boss, not quite so cold and miserable, you can finally, _really_ study him, and try to find some aspects of the boy you once knew.

His hair that was once so shaggy and dark, that gave him a boyish and mischievous air, has been pulled away from his face, turning his gentle expression serious and stern, and you wonder just what his job actually is that requires him to look so _mean_. The scar does very little to soften his expression, no matter what he does, but there’s a twinkle in his eyes as he quirks his lips.

“See somethin’ ye like?”

And _there_ is the flirting you remember from high school.

“You haven’t changed in the slightest,” you return, and the lie doesn’t leave your lips easily. Your voice shakes and you turn your gaze to the ground at your feet, wishing that it might swallow you whole. Of course he has changed – you both have.

(You’re pretty sure that something like this would have never happened in high school, after all.)

“Well, I know that isn’t true,” quips Shay, with a wry smirk. “You hardly recognised me.”

“Hey,” you say and there’s smile across your face that you think hasn’t been there in a long time, “you didn’t recognise me either.”

“True.”

He casts his eyes towards the car once more, as though waiting for his boss to demand he return to the car, but Haytham doesn’t roll the tinted window down and gives no indication that Shay should hurry back.

“Make it dinner,” he says. At your vacant look, he adds, “Instead of lunch. Dinner.”

( _That_ definitely would have never happened in high school.)

For a moment all of your woes are forgotten because never in your wildest dreams have you imagined this happening.

The last time the two of you had seen one another had been graduation and he’d been so preoccupied with that pretty red head who’d arrived with _what-is-his-bloody-name_ that he’d barely paid attention when you offered your well wishes for his future. It’s a surprise for Shay – who you’d crushed on _forever_ in high school but equally hated because he was so attractive but such a _tool_ – to ask you so blatantly when you’ve always been sure he didn’t see you that way, didn’t see you like the countless other woman he’d taken out to _dinner_ and _other things_.

So you don’t sound particularly sure of yourself when you agree to this.

 _Lunch_ you can do, _lunch_ you can _afford_ but _dinner_ between friends, a split down the middle bill – that you’re not so sure of. As much as you’d love to do this – and your high school self would _never_ forgive you for turning this down – you just can’t afford it in your current situation.

He starts to mention days of the week, looking for your input until eventually the two of you have decided upon a night and you’re still struggling with the fact that you’re agreeing to something you don’t think you can afford.

“Ah, er-“

“My treat,” says Shay, with that infuriating and gentle smile. “Or, well, Haytham’s treat but,” he lowers his voice to a whisper, “he doesn’t need to know.”

Your laughter is light and surprised – you don’t remember Shay being so good at reading people before and you’re looking forward to conversation at _dinner_ (that you can go to now that you know you don’t have to pay for it). There are questions in your head already, begging for answers, and you’re so distracted by him and the aura of mystery that surrounds the easy-going boy you knew in high school.

He leans forward and presses a kiss to your cheek and you flush scarlet again ( _wow the you from high school is shrieking like a five-year-old right now_ ) and before you can think of anything to say, he’s striding back to the car, leaving you standing on your doorstep as you dig for your keys.

The car doesn’t leave until you’re inside, leaning against the door and grinning like a fool, and still wearing his jacket.


	3. Family Man [Connor]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _There’s something unsettling about coming home to silence._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> short and fluffy!
> 
> requested by lovatic-3468 on tumblr

There’s something unsettling about coming home to silence.

The Homestead is empty, disturbingly so, and so unnervingly quiet it has the hairs on your body standing on end. Something isn’t right here, _some_ thing has happened here, and the fact that your husband and kids haven’t greeted you at the door like usual only adds to the suspicion.

You set the basket over your arm down gently on the table by the door as you cautiously tip-toe through your unusually tranquil home. Where are the twins, wreaking havoc as they’re wont to do? Why isn’t your youngest crying as has become his response when he hears the door closing? Where’s your little girl, with the messy pigtails and the large round eyes, shrieking like a banshee and brandishing the latest casualty from her toy collection?

It’s a mess, like it always is after you’ve had to leave to run an errand of some kind, and you’re watching your step and peering around corners, expecting the twins to come barrelling into you at any second. Furniture has been moved; there are toys all over the floor, providing some comfort with its normality, and empty but well-used plates lay abandoned on the dining table.

Suspicion is giving way to wariness now and the longer you go without hearing any voices, the more that wariness grows into fear.

What if something’s happened while you were gone? What if your children have been taken? What if Connor’s been taken? What if Connor’s _dead_?

It’s irrational and silly – Connor would never go anywhere without a fight, if that were truly the case, and he wouldn’t so willingly give up your children to enemies.

You take the steps slowly, unsurely, walking as quietly and quickly possible while trying to keep your senses alert, trying to remember what little of the skills Connor taught you. You can’t hear anything though, no matter how hard you try, and the upstairs hall you are carefully traversing through is just as war-torn as the halls downstairs, just as untidy.

The door at the end of the hall is ajar; the bedroom you share with Connor. There’s an orange glow emitting from within, from what you imagine is probably the fireplace, and when you gently push open the door to the warm room, the sight warms your heart.

The twins are curled up close to Connor’s side, clutching tight to his shirt, their thumbs in their mouths and blissfully peaceful expressions on their faces. In sleep, they look nothing like the tyrannical rascals that torment your every waking moment, that test your patience more frequently than you appreciate.

At Connor’s shoulder, your little boy sleeps soundlessly, mouth hanging open and drool leaving a thin trail along his chin and dampening your husband’s shirt. Connor doesn’t look bothered – you can’t imagine he would be; this is the same man who’s walked home wielding three dead rabbits and their blood still, _literally_ , on his hands – but when he glances up and catches you standing in the doorway, shifting your other daughter’s head where it rests upon his other shoulder, he looks perplexed.

As your worries ease away into nothingness, a smile crosses your face.

“All went smoothly I assume?” you murmur, loud enough to be heard but quiet enough so as to not disturb the sleeping scoundrels clinging tightly to their father.

His answering smile is a touch humble, dashed with a wince; probably at the state of the Homestead left in their wake. You’re used to it by now and you’ve told him so, time and time again, yet each time he appears bashful and apologetic, and before he can voice the apologies that are his lips, you shush him, shaking your head gently.

“It’s fine,” you whisper, ever aware of the shifting of the twins at your voice. If you linger much longer they’ll wake, and tidying the aftermath of their busy day will be even more difficult than you’re anticipating.

“They tired themselves out,” Connor says gently, fondly, and the low rumbling of his voice draws a soft moan from the little one at his shoulder.

For a heart-stopping moment, you worry he’s about to wake, but he shifts slightly, wipes his drool coated chin, and settles again.

You exhale in relief.

“Keep them sleeping,” you say, and your voice is still a whisper as you cast your eyes once more over your children. “I’ll be downstairs if you need me.”

Perhaps, you hope silently, it won’t take so long to tidy up this time, and you’ll be able to join their late afternoon nap. Perhaps your children will still be sleeping soundly, perhaps they won’t have stirred, and perhaps you’ll be able to join their cuddle huddle against their warm bear of a father.

It sets a skip in your step and a fluttering in your stomach and you’ve never felt so lucky in your life.


	4. Secret [Shay Cormac]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _His idea of lending a hand is not what you’d have thought. Lending a hand, you think, when it comes to your fellow brother and sister assassins, would mean calling out from your hiding spot until you’re found._
> 
>  
> 
> _Lending a hand does not involve a faux air assassination that scares the crap out of you._

You can feel his eyes on you but you’ve no idea where he is.

He’s always been good at this part, infuriatingly good, and no matter how hard you try you’ll never be able to match his skill.

But you’ll still _try_.

Shay always says the key is to _hone your senses_ , to try and become one with your surroundings, but he makes it look so easy that it’s difficult to concentrate. You’re sure you’re alone, that he’s up and left you here, searching in earnest for him while he’s buggered off god knows where.

You hate training with him – he’s too _good_ and he always seems to know your move before you do.

“Find me,” he said, like it’s so _easy_ , like he doesn’t have the upper hand with that stupid _vision_ of his.

“Easy-peasy,” you’d replied cockily, in the same way you always do, always foolishly believing that _this time_ will be different, that _this time_ , you’ll catch him out and _win_.

And he’d flashed that infuriatingly charming smile, the easy quirk of his lips that set your heart fluttering, and then he clambered up a tree and disappeared.

You’re not a good climber, so that should have been a warning sign right there, but you know the rules the two of you set – _anything goes_. A challenge that always seems to fall in his favour.

You’ve been searching this forest for nigh on an hour now and you honestly feel like you’re about to go insane with frustration. You can hear the birds in the trees, the wind whistling through its leaves, the waves lapping at the shore, Chevalier’s men on the _Gerfaut_ , barking orders at one another, everything but Shay Cormac himself.

You’re about to give up, about to shout that it’s _over_ , you’re _done_ and going back to the Homestead now when he descends from above, skilfully and elegantly, in that manner that’s so natural that it makes you hate him.

Only not really, because he’s _Shay_ and you’re _you_ and you could never hate him – he just makes you _want_ to hate him.

Your breath leaves you in a rush and you land hard on the grass with an _ooft_ and with your target looming over you, an arrogant smirk plastered across his face and both hands on either side of your head. You’re still wearing the surprised expression on your face from when your body had crumbled beneath you and a weight had fallen atop you, but when you see him, grinning and the beginnings of a laugh rumbling through him, you glare.

“That wasn’t part of the challenge,” you snap, but there’s little bite, and while you want to shove him off and make your way back, you don’t want to lose his body heat, nor the close proximity of the gorgeous specimen hovering over you.

(You really just wish he’d _shave_ that worm from his face.)

(Or maybe not; you can’t decide.)

“Well,” he crows cheerfully, “ye were lookin’ so frustrated, I thought I’d lend a hand.”

His idea of _lending a hand_ is not what you’d have thought. _Lending a hand_ , you think, when it comes to your fellow brother and sister assassins, would mean calling out from your hiding spot until you’re found.

 _Lending a hand_ does not involve a faux air assassination that scares the crap out of you.

“Well, ha- _ha_ ,” you say back, as playfully as you dare, drawing your hands up to press gently at his chest. “Congratulations. You win.”

He smirks, leans forward to steal a kiss from your lips, and starts to climb off your body. “Don’t be like that,” he says and he holds out a hand to help you to your feet.

“Be like what?” you ask innocently, blinking owlishly and adjusting your clothes with what little pride you have left. Shay has a way of removing it from you and toying with it, handing it back just in time to rip it from your hands again.

“All passive-aggressive like,” he adds. He looks genuinely perplexed. “You’re the one who insists that one day ye’ll beat me.”

“One day I will,” you say fiercely, because every man has a weakness, and _one day_ you’ll find Shay’s and on that day, you will _find him_ like he always dares you to.

“Aye,” he returns nonchalantly. “We’ll see.”

* * *

The Morrigan feels like its own little world, far away from the Homestead and your brother and sister assassins, far away from any problems that wait for you there.

She bobs gently on the waves, soothing and gentle, and not for the first time you regret that you’ve not had the opportunity to go on a mission with Shay yet, a mission that necessitates seeing him at the helm. What you wouldn’t give…

You think it’s overkill, really, all the banners with the Brotherhood’s symbol hanging on every inch of free space in the Captain’s cabin, as if they need to remind you of your allegiances at every possible opportunity.

 _Really_ , you want to say, _what possible reason could I have to turn on the Brotherhood_?

They’re as good as your family, some more than others.

Your eyes drift towards Shay, where he’s bent over papers on the desk, and you sit up on the bed where you’ve been lounging. Your weapons lie abandoned on the table by the door, and you’re on the cusp of sleep when Shay stands and throws himself onto the bed beside you.

From his lips comes a long, suffering sigh and you close your eyes, leaning towards him, breathing him in; pine from the trees outside, sea salt carried on the wind and clinging to his clothes and hair. His arm comes around your shoulders, drawing you close to his chest, and any earlier rivalry between the two of you has been dismissed as you settle.

Of course it’s in the back of your mind – Liam can beat him, has beat him hundreds of times, so there must _be_ some way. Maybe if you change the challenge somewhat, maybe if you change the rules, just _once_ , just to see if you can _win_.

“Yer thinkin’ too loud,” Shay comments teasingly. “It’s distractin’.”

“Good,” you murmur in return, burying your face in his neck.

There’s a breath and a pause and then he says, just as softly, as though afraid to disturb the small peace created for the two of you in this cabin, “What’re ye thinkin’ about?”

“Wouldn’t you like to know,” you tease, pulling away briefly to watch his face.

His lips quirk as he meets your eyes. “Aye,” he says, “I would.”

His kiss is quick and daring and exciting, thrilling in its ability to be forbidden. No one knows about the two of you and if anyone were to ask, you’re not sure you can say when it even started; when did the fleeting, friendly touches become so frequent, when did they make your heart skip a beat and your stomach squirm? When did your training sessions end with a quiet evening spent in the Morrigan, far away from the Homestead and prying eyes and whispering rumours?

Any minute, someone could knock on that door and catch the two of you, and the thought is exhilarating and terrifying at once. You’ve never heard of any rules against assassins courting each other but then you’ve never seen anyone publically announce and engage in a relationship either.

You’re not sure if it’s accepted or frowned upon, but the element of forbidden fruit is far too tempting and exciting to pass up.

He kisses you again, chastely, desperately, as if he can sense the turn your thoughts have taken. Not a minute before he’d been telling you that you’re thinking too loud and now it’s as if he can hear everything going through your head.

And then all you’ve been wondering about, thinking about, happens.

There’s a knock at the door, another, and then another, more insistent, and then whoever’s on the other side tries the door. Shay leaps to his feet, startled, and you’re equally as shocked, bolting upright on the bed and staring wide-eyed at the door. For one insane moment, you think whoever’s out there already knows you’re here, that they’ve suddenly grown the ability to see through solid wood doors.

And then Liam calls, “Shay? A word?”

“Er, yes,” Shay answers and he shoots you a panicked look.

You blink.

“I’m not hiding under the bed _again_ ,” you hiss at him, mindful in your panic, aware that Liam is one of the best and that if he really tried he could find out about you already.

Shay gestures pathetically from the bed to the door, to Liam on the other side.

“What else d’ye suggest?” He returns and then, desperately, “I don’t think ye’ll fit through that porthole!”

“Shay?” Liam calls and if you’re not mistaken, you can hear suspicion in his voice. “Everything alright?”

“Fine,” Shay replies, “I’m just – er…” he looks hopelessly towards you. “Ah…”

You slide past him, kissing his cheek as you pass, and he catches your elbow before you can slip into your hiding place, drawing you closer to catch your lips with his own. He presses you against the door and that exhilarating and terrifying feeling hits you again; Liam is on the other side of the door, with all his master assassin skills. Any moment, he could call your name. Any moment, he could blow the whistle on this little secret of yours and Shay’s.

“Get going,” you breathe against his lips, careful of Liam just outside.

“I’d much rather stay right here,” is the reply, just as breathy and breathless.

“I know.” You give him a light shove, and just about a mile out of your skin when Liam knocks again, insistently.

“Shay,” he says again impatiently.

You slip into a hiding spot behind the door, listen cautiously as Shay greets Liam, holding your breath for good measure. Shay shoots you once last longing look before he follows Liam from the cabin.

You teasingly blow him a kiss.


	5. Stay [Connor]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _The blush he wore just made everything all the sweeter. The large bear of a man you’d first seen had turned into an anxious wreck at the mere idea of speaking to someone like yourself._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Modern!AU. (◕‿◕✿)

It’s a nice little place, with large windows and a beautiful view of the sea.

The waiters and waitresses are lovely and polite, in the kind of way that doesn’t seem forced, the rare way that shows you they actually _like_ working here, and you’re so entranced by the quaint little café that you don’t notice the first couple of sneezes from your date.

It’s endearing, you think, that he has convinced himself you won’t notice.

It’s endearing that he cares enough to not have phoned you and rescheduled.

You wouldn’t have minded if he had – he’s nice enough after all, and this isn’t your first date – because Connor doesn’t seem like the kind of person to blow you off for no reason at all.

And he has a _very_ good reason if he called to rain check.

He looks like the walking dead, you think, stealing glances at him from behind your menu, with drooping eyes and slumped shoulders. He seems miserable but nice enough to try and put on a brave front whenever he catches your eyes.

You’re not sure you’ve ever met someone like him before.

He’s built like a tank, all broad shoulders and arms the size of your head, and when you first met him he was wearing a sour and intimidating look that you learned later was due to the fact he couldn’t find the dog food.

The nervous energy that gripped you had disappeared almost instantly when he’d stumbled over his words asking you out that first time. The blush he wore just made everything all the sweeter. The large bear of a man you’d first seen had turned into an anxious wreck at the mere idea of speaking to someone like yourself.

It was _adorable_.

He sneezes again.

“Are you alright?” You brave asking, setting your menu down on the table and fixing him with an amused stare.

He looks alarmed at being caught. “Fine,” he says, “I am fine.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes.”

His nose is bright red and rubbed raw and there are dark circles around his eyes from an apparent lack of sleep. You know yourself how it feels – more often than not, when you get like this, your bed is the only place you want to be. You’re incredibly impressed by his determination even if you find it a little idiotic that he didn’t just call to cancel.

“You don’t look ‘fine’,” you say cautiously but you’re still smiling, still impressed that he thinks he can lie his way through what is obviously very difficult for him.

Finally, he sets his menu down and meets your eyes, tired and red rimmed as they are, and for a second you’re worried he’s going to drop off right then and there.

Whatever he’s about to say is ruined by another sneeze and around you some of the other customers are glancing over, curious or annoyed, you can’t tell.

(It’s likely to be the latter.)

“I think we should get you home,” you suggest lightly, setting down your own menu and starting to gather your things. He looks ready to argue but instead breaks into bone wracking coughs that have your face morphing into an expression of sympathy.

You leave a tip for your waiter even though you haven’t ordered anything – you’re _nice_ like that – and help Connor into a taxi. It’s a miracle the taxi driver understands the address Connor gives because you certainly don’t, as slurred as his speech is and as tired as he sounds.

It’s a nice little place, small and homey, all earthy colours that immediately draw you in. It’s tidy too, with everything in its place, and it’s easy to find what you’re looking for as you help Connor to his room.

He’s half conscious and it’s a pure fluke that you manage to get him to his bed before he starts to lean fully on you for support. He’s a _big guy_ , after all, and you’re little in comparison, and you’re absolutely sure that you would have collapsed if not for him forcing himself to keep walking.

You find some medicine and a bottle of water in his kitchen and return to the room just in time to see Connor curling up under the covers, his shirt and jeans abandoned on the floor near the bed. There’s a couple of seconds where you forget yourself in favour of thinking, _damn, I missed it_ , and then you’re approaching the bed and encouraging him to take the pills and stay hydrated.

You think you should feel embarrassed for the poor man – he was trying so hard to impress you, and instead has wound up with you looking after him – but mostly you just think it’s _cute_.

Obviously he cares enough about you to want to try and power through whatever’s ailing him, and your high opinion of him is only skyrocketing.

“I am sorry,” Connor mumbles, looking truly bashful and even more adorable than before. “I should have called to postpone…”

“It’s fine,” you say, because _it is_ and you don’t mind in the slightest. You cast your eyes around his room, around the various decorations on the walls, the paintings, everything providing little hints to him. “You have a nice place here.”

“I did not plan for you to see it like this,” he admits. “I was not prepared for company.”

You cast your eyes around the spotless apartment; there are dishes in the sink and a couple of old newspapers on the table but other than that, the place is tidier than you expected. It’s tidier than _your_ place, that’s for damn sure.

“Don’t be silly,” you scold lightly. “It’s fine.”

There’s a comfortable silence broken only by more coughing. You wince, feeling the pain he no doubt is experiencing yourself, and you lean down to kiss his forehead.

“Get some sleep,” you murmur, “and drink lots of water.”

“Will you stay?”

 _That_ makes you pause; you hadn’t expected to be asked that, hadn’t expected him to want you to stick around when he’s like this. You know yourself that you’d rather hide away under your covers when you’re this ill, but apparently everyone is different. Apparently people like Connor like company when they feel like _shit_.

“I can,” you settle for, reaching for his hand. “Do you want me to?”

His grip is gentle, his large hand engulfing yours.

“I would like that very much.”

You’re not sure when things changed, when things between you escalated to this point, but you’re sure you can see adoration in his eyes and it’s mirrored in the gentle squeeze he gives your hand. It feels like the words are something entirely different – _I would like that very much_ – and you can’t help but feel like they’re in the place of something else, something heavier that he wants to confess.

You won’t force the words from him, not like this, not when the medication he took might be kicking in, but you’re pretty sure it’s the clearest he’s sounded all day.

You swallow and take a deep, steadying breath.

“Then I’ll stay.”


	6. Look After You [Shay Cormac]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“No, it isn’t,” he says, and really you should be surprised that Liam told Shay what happened; they’re like brothers. You’re just surprised it happened so quickly. He says your name, earnestly, and adds, “There’s nothin’ wrong with helpin’ people.”_

“The target escaped,” Hope repeats, almost appearing to test the words, and you can do nothing but stand before her, biting your lip and finding your dirt caked boots suddenly _extremely_ interesting.

You’ve nothing to say, really, to defend yourself, as much as you’d like to. You’d played right into the target’s hands, after all, becoming distracted by the baker’s daughter, the little girl with the ruined doll, and he’d used that against you.

You’re kicking yourself now, wishing you’d been paying more attention, wishing you’d realised that your target was watching you just like you were watching him, wishing you’d realised that he _knew_ you’d become distracted.

Hope is unimpressed and any explanation you have will be unsatisfactory so you don’t even try. You stand with your hands clasped in front of you and your head bowed; you are well aware that you’ve messed this up and you don’t need her to reiterate it for you.

Hope sighs, long and tired and frustrated, and you’re not used to hearing this from her, not used to screwing up like this.

You’re not used to disappointing her.

She dismisses you with a wave of her tired hand and nothing else and if you thought you’d disappointed her before, this is much worse. She usually banters, you reflect dismally, taking your leave and shutting the door softly behind you. Every instinct in your body is screaming at you to slam it shut, to pound your fists against it, to take the vase from the table in the hall and smash it against the wall.

This is a _rookie_ mistake, you think, settling to clenching your fists and turning your body towards the straw mannequins outside. You pass quickly through the Homestead, keeping your head down and avoiding everyone, especially the loud Irish voices you can hear in the lounge. You hope they haven’t noticed you passing by the doorway and you hope that if they have that there’s enough sense between them to realise that you want to be left alone.

You’re drawing your sword before you even reach the mannequin, swinging madly at it as soon as you’re within reach. Strands of straw float lightly to the grass, like tiny golden hairs, and you continue to hack at the mannequin, imagining your target and his smarmy grin, imagining the red cross on his lapel, seeing your future in the Brotherhood slipping further and further from your grasp.

 _This_ was your _chance_ – you were going to prove to Hope that you were capable, that you could _do this_ but it’s becoming clear that you _can’t_ , no matter how much you try to convince yourself.

You fall into a routine – a whack, a slice, over your head and down in an arc, until the mannequin resembles nothing more than a lump of hay held aloft by a marked post, marked by your wild swings.

“I think you missed a bit,” remarks a voice at your back lightly, its musical tilt giving away its owner before you’ve even turned to face him.

“Piss off,” you throw over your shoulder, accompanied by another frustrated smack to your not-mannequin, the flat of your blade slapping the straw and making the post shake.

“I take it,” he continues, “it didn’t go well?”

You try to ignore him, try to ignore his footsteps on the grass as he saunters towards you, and you swing your sword at the head of your mannequin, lobbing it off in a single elegant swipe that seems out of place with your anger.

You stop, leaning against the post, dropping your sword to the grass and feeling the effect your tirade has had on your body. You’re exhausted, panting and gasping, and your vision is blurry with tears you refuse to let fall. Crying doesn’t help anyone, you tell yourself, recalling Hope’s words, thinking of her face and what she’d look like if she could see you.

 _Anger you can channel_ , you think, _tears are useless_.

“No,” you admit breathlessly, past the lump in your throat, and your words are as useless as your tears. “It did not.”

Shay Cormac stoops to grab your sword and he inspects the blade coolly. It’s dull, you think, it must be, because your aim was off with your anger and while the mannequin may be all but destroyed, the post has far too many marks than it did before.

You wipe your eyes, stopping the tears before they can fall, and you straighten to face him, taking your sword from it when he offers it. You’ll have plenty time to have it sharpened, you reckon, because you’ve probably set your progress back _months_ with this screw up.

Shay gestures for you to follow him and leads you to the practice ring, with the wooden swords set along the side, the wooden swords you haven’t needed to train with for years now.

He hands you one. “Considering the scale of _this_ screw up,” he quips genially, “you could use the practice.”

You grip the wooden handle tightly and jab towards his right side. He counters it easily.

“Piss off,” you say again but you’re breathless and red faced and your eyes are blood shot and it doesn’t come across as furiously as you’d hoped it would.

You spar back and forth silently for a good while, and you get the feeling Shay lets you win most of the points, if only to make you feel better.

It does the _exact_ opposite.

“Stop going easy on me,” you spit at him, accompanied by an unnecessarily hard hit to his side and a dirty move to his stomach while he’s preoccupied. He treats it as a game and replies in kind, though his hits aren’t quite so hard or quite so dirty.

He gasps your name as he strikes at you, as your lift your wooden sword to counter, as you struggle under his strength when the shafts connect, but you think it’s a distraction, a ploy for him to win, and you’ve already suffered enough from _distractions_ today.

He presses forward and his strength is overwhelming. He’s pushing you backwards, one step at a time, and neither of you are going to give in to the other, not so soon, not when your fight has attracted attention from the Homestead. Faces watch the two of you curiously but they don’t stray any closer; you can hear shouts of encouragement but whoever they’re for is lost on the wind.

Your foot catches on the edge of the ring and you slip backwards, landing hard on the grass with Shay looming over you, holding the blunt wooden sword to your neck and saying nothing at all. That you don’t expect; if he’d been cocky and arrogant, like usual, you could have used that, could have used that anger.

But Shay knows what you’re thinking, he always does, and instead of gloating as you know he would with Liam, he offers you a hand and helps you to your feet. You toss the wooden sword aside, rage still coursing through your veins, and start to storm back to the Homestead and your room where you might gain some sense of privacy to reflect on your failure in peace.

But Shay isn’t finished. He calls your name, reaches for your elbow and pulls you gently to a stop. You don’t want to look at him because if you do you want to cry and _tears are useless_ , they won’t do you any good at all.

“It’s not your fault,” says Shay quietly and behind you your brother and sister assassins hoot and holler, as if expecting another fight between the two of you. You chance a glance over your shoulder, seeing Liam standing on the porch, arms across his chest and watching your exchange carefully.

 _No doubt ready to report it all to Hope_ , you think furiously. It’s no secret the two of them are close, after all, like it’s no secret that you and Shay are close. Why else would he let you beat him when he hates losing to Liam so much?

“It is,” you bite back lifelessly, and you can feel the anger seeping from your bones as you admit it. You slump, the tension leaving your body all at once with your begrudging admission, and Shay releases you, seeming to sense your defeat.

“No, it isn’t,” he says, and really you should be surprised that Liam told Shay what happened; they’re like brothers. You’re just surprised it happened so quickly. He says your name, earnestly, and adds, “There’s nothin’ wrong with helpin’ people.”

It’s a comfort to know you’re not alone, to know that _some_ one supports you amongst your brothers and sisters. It eases the pain you feel somewhat but doesn’t make you feel any less guilty.

“The target got away,” you mutter bitterly and saying the words aloud takes some of the strain away from your disjointed thoughts, from the voice in your head that sounds like Hope, scolding, scolding, _scolding_ all the time.

For a few disheartening moments, you think Shay isn’t going to say anything. Then, he takes your hand in his own and starts to lead you away from the Homestead.

“I have a ship now,” he says, and his accent has become thick with his excitement, “have you seen her yet? The _Morrigan_. She’s beautiful.”

He takes your surprised _no_ as consent that you wish to see her and doesn’t listen to your protests as he leads you towards the harbour, where the assassin ships are docked and where a lithe little ship bobs up and down on the waves among esteemed company.

It looks terribly out of place amongst the large man-o-war’s that surround it, but Shay seems far too proud for you mention this aloud.

He leads you to the rowboat on the sand and releases your hand, gesturing in a gentlemanly manner for you to enter the small craft, and with only one lingering look towards the Homestead, high on the hill overlooking the water, you get in.

* * *

It feels like the Morrigan is its own little world, far away from the Homestead and the problems that await you there, and you can’t possibly feel more grateful to Shay even if you tried.

He hides you away in the Captain’s cabin, away from the curious eyes of your brother and sister assassins who make up his crew, and the symbol of the Brotherhood hangs everywhere, is everywhere you look, and if the swaying of the Morrigan wasn’t making you nauseous before, the banners in the cabin are.

They serve as a painful reminder of your failure, and you can’t for the life of you think why Shay thought this was a good idea at all.

“Chevalier scorned her,” Shay mentions thoughtfully, and your nose wrinkles at the mention of the man, “but I think she’s got spunk.”

You hum, just as thoughtfully, trailing your hand along the desk by the door, along the fabric of the banners overhead.

“She could take the _Gerfaut_ ,” you say quietly but with little honesty. The _Gerfaut_ is a beast, with dozens of cannons and the Morrigan is small and slight. She’d be destroyed instantly.

Shay’s face lights up. “She _could_ ,” he agrees. “I’d love to teach Chevalier a lesson in humility.”

“I’d pay to see that,” you murmur.

You’re quieter now, with less of the rage that filled your being earlier, and all you want is a good sleep and something to eat. In truth, you want a good cry, but you’re not willing to do so in Shay’s presence; that would be far too humiliating. There’s a lump in your throat and tears in your eyes and you just want to _sleep_ and forget this day ever happened.

You’ve your back to Shay but he has this infuriating way of knowing when there’s something wrong, when you’re close to breaking. You can feel his eyes on your back before you hear his steps on the worn and dirty carpet under foot and you already know what he’s doing before his hand gently cups your elbow.

He guides you to the bed and sits with you, draws you close to him with an arm around your shoulder and a kiss to the temple. You blink rapidly, refusing to cry despite the trembling of your lips and the shaking of your hands.

“ _You_ did nothing wrong,” Shay says again, softly, insistently, and he repeats again, words said earlier and earnestly in the heat of the moment, “there’s nothin’ wrong with helpin’ people.”

It’s all it takes for your strong façade to fall apart; you’re blinking rapidly, trying in vain to stop what you know is coming and what you can’t prevent, and he’s gathering you in his arms and shushing you gently.

 _Tears are useless_ , you’re thinking, because what can you do with this? Tears won’t help you win battles, tears won’t turn back time and fix this mistake but try as you might you can’t seem to stop.

There’s no judgement from Shay, only comforting hands and gentle, soothing words whispered against your hair, and you hate that you’re like this now, that you always seem to be like this, that Shay never voices any complaints, not once, when all you can think is that you’re tired of crying.

It’s always him, you realise, always, when the night terrors become too much and you’re screaming awake in the dead of night, grasping at your throat and clutching at the sheets. It’s always him who comes barging into your room like a shining knight, ready to fight away your demons while still fighting off his own. It’s always him who gathers you in his arms and stays with you, who never complains, not once, that you’re old enough to be over this by now.

“You did nothin’ wrong,” he says again.

And he’s right, _he is_ ; it’s not your fault Hope cannot see kindness, can see nothing past ensuring the Templars lose their footing here before they’ve even settled. There will be other opportunities to catch him, other instances to fix this mistake that doesn’t feel like one. You have to stop beating yourself up over it.

“Ye did the right thing,” Shay says, once your tears have stopped and you’re a little more in control. “An’ if Hope can’t see that then –“

“Careful what you say,” you murmur gently. “She has ears everywhere.”

“Not here she doesn’t,” is his quick reply. “She doesn’t have ears on the Morrigan, not on _my_ ship.”

It’s comforting, to know that you have somewhere to go that’s _away_ from everything, away from Hope’s ears and Liam’s loyalty. It’s comforting to know that Shay is on _your_ side and not theirs, that he will listen to you, that he will protect you, that the Morrigan is as much your safe place as it is his.

What he promises you is something you’d never thought you’d find here, something you’ve yet to find in the Homestead amongst brothers and sisters you call friends. He’s promising you safety and peace and everything in between, promising you the sanctuary of the Morrigan when the Homestead will not offer it.

You’re slowly managing to pull yourself together but you can’t find it in yourself to pull away from Shay, from his arms that still hold you so close, from his lips that still whisper soothing words in your ear.

“Stay here tonight,” Shay murmurs. He draws away only slightly, nervously, as though ready to release you at any moment. “Get some distance from Hope, from… from it all.”

You swallow and wipe at your eyes and nose. “You’ll stay with me, won’t you?”

“Of course,” he replies instantly. He seems to find the question unthinkable, as though it was never in doubt that he would remain with you. His words are breathed against your neck as he draws you close to him again, clutching you as tightly as you do him, like a lifeline.

“I’m not goin’ anywhere.”


	7. Honest Thief [Haytham Kenway]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“Thief,” echoes Shay, after giving his own name. “You wouldn’t happen to be our culprit, would ye?”_
> 
>  
> 
> _You inhale through your teeth, a shaky hiss and a wince. “Guilty,” you mutter and then, insistently, “but I returned it!”_
> 
>  
> 
> _“Aye, that ye did,” returns Shay. “You’re an odd one, aren’t ye?”_

The office you’ve snuck into is large and bright, with three bookcases at least and more books than you can count.

The desk on the far side is polished and dark and the papers are neatly stacked on its surface. Three candles stand in a line on each side like tiny soldiers, the wax half-melted and wicks dark and folded over. You’ve never seen anything like this before, not ever, and it takes everything in you to remember why you’re here at all.

 _Documents_ , you tell yourself. _There’s only so long before Alfie gives me the signal_.

You stride quickly and quietly towards the large and ominous looking desk and you’re struck by the thought that you’d hate to be sitting across from this when it’s owner is in here. You’ve heard stories of the great Haytham Kenway, Grand Master of the Colonial Templars, and Achilles had made it very clear upon giving you this mission that should you be caught, you _would_ die.

 _He does not take kindly to assassins_ , your mentor had told you, every word a shard of ice to the heart. _If he catches you, you are on your own_.

 _Comforting_ , you had thought sardonically, but seeing the man himself from afar, the careful expression on his face and the hands clasped neatly behind his back had reminded you exactly of who you were dealing with.

You rifle through the drawers, careful to keep everything in its place, but mindful that you might not have as much time as you’d hoped. You cannot alert him to the fact that someone other than himself has been here; leaving a mess behind you will do exactly that.

Everything has its place, you find as you rummage through the drawers and papers, and you’ve no doubt in your mind that no matter what you do, how careful you are, he’s going to _know_ someone has been here.

 _No wonder I’m on my own if he discovers me_ , you think, and your stomach is churning with nerves that are ill-placed at this current moment. _I can’t be nervous right now_!

Finally, you spy it as you’re flicking quickly through some papers in the bottom drawer; First Civilisation markings, notes of translation, _important notes for the Brotherhood_. You shut the drawer, delighted, and turn to make your escape.

The door to the office swings open, stopping you dead.

You’re halfway to the window you’d snuck in through, your hood drawn and the documents plain for all to see clutched tightly in your hand. There’s a couple of seconds of silence and shock shared between the two of you before you start to slowly step away, never turning your back on the Grand Master.

“Well,” he greets, and no one told you how sophisticated and _attractive_ he bloody sounds! “I do believe we’re not acquainted.”

He prowls forward, not so subtly reaching for the pistol at his side while you mirror his actions, reaching for a smoke bomb from the pouch at your belt. You’re a thief and an assassin; you prefer stealth over combat. If you engage this man in a battle, you will lose.

“No, we’re not,” you agree, tucking the documents away. “I’d prefer to keep it that way, if you don’t mind.”

He draws his pistol quickly and it’s sheer luck that you manage to duck away in time, clutching at the window sill behind you with shaking hands.

Appalled, you snap, “ _That_ was rude!” and you throw the smoke bomb at his feet.

* * *

They’re proud of you, smiling over the documents you’d escaped with and thrilled that the assassins finally have a leg up in the war.

Alfie stands by your side, receiving just as much praise when he’s the reason you were _nearly killed_ – some brilliant look-out _he_ is – but you keep your mouth shut, pondering. Something about your Mentor’s words unsettles you, something about the gleeful expression crossing Hope’s face unnerves you, and something about their words doesn’t seem right.

“We can win this, Achilles,” Hope says and beside you, Alfie grins; the elation in their voices is drawing him in. “With this information, we can find the site before the Templars.”

Achilles nods once. “Liam will want to know about this.”

It’s the nature of a thief to be perceptive.

Achilles sets the documents in the top drawer of his desk, unlocked for now, but you know that this room is locked at all times when not in use.

“You have done well,” Achilles says to Alfie and yourself, and you don’t trust your voice enough to speak. You nod wordlessly but you feel like you’ve made a very big mistake.

“If you don’t mind my asking, sir,” says Alfie, lounging against the table at his back and staring curiously at the Mentor, “what’s those slips of paper got to do with anything?”

“Pieces of Eden,” Hope says in that beautiful, dulcet tone. The rest of her words are lost on you because all you can hear is a howling in your ears, a shrieking that startles you into realisation; _you have made a mistake_.

You’ve heard the stories; Haiti and Lisbon, mighty earthquakes that shattered civilisations and destroyed lives. Innocent people suffered because ancient places should not have been disturbed and the information you have stolen is going to help the assassins to commit this atrocity again.

You remember a name, whispered behind hands and said out of view of the Mentors: Shay Cormac.

He was expelled for daring to disobey, for daring to argue. His hard work might have been overturned by your excellent thievery skills.

Achilles says your name and you realise you’ve been asked a question. Your blank look tells all.

“You needn’t worry,” Hope says. “The Templars will not find you here.”

 _Not what I was worried about_ , you think, but instead you chuckle breathlessly, worriedly, with acting skills so sublime that even the best fall for it.

“Sorry,” you mumble. “He was intimidating.”

They throw you words of comfort, of reassurance, but your feet itch. You want to grab those papers and destroy them. You want to steal them back and flee this place, this place you’d once thought was home.

You want to save lives.

* * *

You’re a better, stealthier thief than Shay Cormac, that’s for damn sure, but your nerves are shot and your hands shake and _honestly_ , it would have been better if Haytham Kenway had killed you when he had the chance because it would have stopped this frankly insane plan of yours before it could be concocted.

 _Honestly_ , you think, _only I would have the stupid idea to return the thing I’ve stolen_.

The office is dark and your hood is drawn – _new coat, new shirt, new everything_ , to leave behind the life that you feel ashamed of now – and you’re in and out before anyone realises. You’ve laid the papers on his desk, in plain sight, and on top, scribbled on a scrap of paper ripped from a book are the words: _sorry for the inconvenience_!

Now you need to catch a ship and get the _hell_ out of Boston before anyone realises you’re the thief. Haytham Kenway didn’t see your face but you saw his and any chance of escaping if you see him will rely on your skill to remain calm in the face of imminent death. Everything about you is new, new clothes and new outlook, but you really just want to leave before your assassin brothers and sisters decide to hunt you down.

 _I’m no good at anything_ , you think glumly, leaning against the nearest wall and staring upwards, at the bright sky that doesn’t seem to fit your cloudy outlook on your future. The words of the creed you had once followed, you had once depended upon, are haunting and disheartening now and you can hardly believe that you had followed them so blindly for so long.

 _Everything is permitted_ , you think and it feels like a mockery of the phrase you have lived by your whole life. _If that’s true, then no one is safe_.

The thought is like a dagger to the heart; isn’t that the Templar outlook? Isn’t that what they believe? It makes you rethink everything you’ve ever known, makes you wonder if this whole time you have been on the wrong side. Or, perhaps, you’ve simply be inducted into the wrong Brotherhood, into the wrong era. Have you simply been cursed with blind leaders, so lost in the mission set before you by the legendary Altaïr Ibn-La’Ahad so long ago?

“Okay,” you tell yourself, pushing away from the wall and starting to join the throngs of people on the street. “No more moping. I am _leaving_.”

The docks are busy and there are people everywhere, bumping into you and stepping in your way. It’s not hard to find a passenger ship and before you approach the vessel you pat yourself down to check the money you’d taken with you from the Homestead is still on your person. Preoccupied with that, you don’t see the two men stepping off the other ship until it’s too late.

There’s an embarrassed smile on your lips and a flush to your cheeks when you lift your head to apologise, your hand on his arm and his hands on yours, and it takes every ounce of your training to remain calm in the face of this new danger.

“Sorry,” you whisper, and the word has more than one meaning now because in front of you is Haytham Kenway.

“No harm done,” he returns with an easy smile and you’re expecting a quick death any second, to be left to bleed out on this street and surrounded by these people in a way you’ve done to your targets more than once. Instead his smile doesn’t waver and his eyes linger on your face. You’re waiting for recognition, waiting for his eyes to light up and the smile to disappear, but it never happens.

“Good,” you murmur breathlessly.

 _Surely he should have recognised me_? You wonder, tempting fate. _I spoke to him in his office_.

Over his shoulder you see someone else walking down the gangplank and off a smallish vessel with red sails, heavily armed and wearing black and the sight of _him_ has you realising that you really need to leave _now_. He might look different, sterner, meaner, but you recognise him nonetheless: _Shay Cormac_.

“Well then,” you say, “sorry to be rude but I really must get –“

“Wait,” says Haytham Kenway quite suddenly, interrupting your attempt to bypass him, and in the aftermath you’ll think that there was nothing at all devious in his word, nothing to warrant your reaction.

You wrench your arm free of his grasp and swing your leg up and at him, catching him in the side and knocking him off balance. Shay’s eyes go wide and he reaches for a weapon – what weapon you don’t see because you release Haytham with a shove and dart into the crowds.

Part of you knows that your instinctual response has probably signed your death warrant and there’s no way you can back yourself into a corner now by getting on ship; you’re not that stupid.

“Shay!” you hear Haytham bark but whatever else he says is lost in the noise around you; the shouts of merchants and your heart thundering in your ears.

 _Stupid, stupid, stupid, stupid_ , you’re saying to yourself, a mantra in your head that grows steadily louder and louder, and in hindsight, you’ll find it _hilarious_ that your luck seemed to run out and then _get worse_ as you ran.

You round the corner, Shay hot on your heels, and right into the path of a group of Assassins.

You slide to a stop, heart hammering in your chest and gasping for breath, and your wide eyes see everything as soon as it happens; they recognise you instantly and start to draw weapons and, when Shay rounds the corner after you, they come to all the wrong conclusions.

“ _Traitor_!” shouts one, aimed at you and you see Shay cock his head in confusion, see him shoot you a startled look as if he didn’t expect the word to be thrown at you.

“You’ll die slowly,” snarls another, advancing on you and you reach for the dagger strapped to your thigh. “You and all your traitor brothers.”

You roll your eyes. “There’s two of us,” you snap impatiently and then, realising what you’ve said and thinking that you need to backtrack now, “and I’ve only just _met him_.”

“Here now,” says Shay Cormac, in a voice with a delicious Irish lilt, “I’m sure after this we can get to know each other better.”

“Don’t make this worse,” you tell him, momentarily distracted, and when he lifts his pistol, you’re sure he’s about to end your life.

Instead, the assassin charging at you drops dead and you unsheathe your dagger quickly to dispose of any others coming at you. When all is said and done, you take a moment to reflect on the fact that you just fought back to back with _Shay Cormac_ and if the assassins thought you a traitor before, now they’ll know for sure.

“A traitor to the Creed, eh?” muses the Irishman as you sheathe your dagger. “We seem to be breedin’ like flies lately.”

“Not quite,” you muse, and you face him at last, calmer in the aftermath and with the knowledge that Shay might not kill you after all. You hold your hand out and boldly introduce yourself. “Thief and, apparently, traitor.”

“Thief,” echoes Shay, after giving his own name. “You wouldn’t happen to be our culprit, would ye?”

You inhale through your teeth, a shaky hiss and a wince. “Guilty,” you mutter and then, insistently, “but I returned it!”

“Aye, that ye did,” returns Shay. “You’re an odd one, aren’t ye?”

Haytham Kenway chooses that moment to round the corner after the two of you, a calm and relaxed stroll and his hands still clasped behind his back. You eye him warily, from the navy blue jacket to the tricorn hat, and the leather boots polished to a shine. He eyes the scene around the two of you; your blood-soaked clothes and the dead assassins at your feet.

“Master Kenway,” greets Shay jovially, “just in time.”

Shay begins a brief recount of all that’s happened and you duck your head and bite your lip when he mentions your past activities. You rub the back of your neck and, while neither are holding you hostage, you’ve no doubt that you have no chance of escaping them.

“You’re the thief,” Haytham ponders thoughtfully. “You also returned to us what you stole. Why?”

You hold your head high and refused to be ashamed of your actions.

“Because of Lisbon and Haiti,” you tell him. “Whatever was on that paper was going to create another disaster.”

“Smart,” comments Shay and he falls silent after a considering look from Haytham. The Grand Master strides forward and _this is it_ , you think. Unsubtly you reach for your dagger again.

“I won’t let you kill me without a fight,” you say fiercely.

“I don’t intend to,” returns Haytham Kenway. “Where are you going now?”

“Nowhere.” Your answer is too quick and too honest. Slower, considerately, you add, “I’ve nowhere to go.”

Haytham Kenway nods. “I think we have much more to discuss,” he announces suddenly and he’s not just talking to you anymore. Shay nods his head. “Come along. Both of you.”

* * *

You’re fidgety and nervous and not at all happy to be in one place, and the two Templars know it.

“Nothing will happen to you,” says Haytham Kenway. “No one would dare try to enter here.”

 _I did_ , you nearly say, slumping into the seat across from his desk. _And I got away with it too_.

The thought does not bring you any comfort. It reminds you that it’s possible, reminds you that nowhere is safe, and reminds you that you’re a traitor now and those you once called _brother_ will not rest until they see you dead. You wonder how Shay does it, how he manages to remain so calm, so alert always, when it’s taking everything you have not to run for the door and catch the first ship out of here.

The Templars here are still – _technically_ – your enemy, even if they haven’t declared as much yet. You’ve also no allies to speak of if you can escape and they decide to hunt you down; the assassins want you dead too.

 _How did this happen_? You agonise, slouching in your seat with a pained expression crossing your features. Not even a week ago everything had been fine; you’d had a makeshift family, friends you could count on, allies to watch your back in the field. _It’s all gone to shit_. _I should have just ignored my morals. I should have just let them keep that stupid piece of paper_.

You want to cry but can’t, not in present company, not if you want to soil even further an already awful first impression.

Haytham and Shay fire questions at you from all sides and you answer as best you can, your allegiance only to yourself now. You have to keep yourself alive, no one else; you don’t owe them anything, not anymore.

Haytham listens to your every word with rapt attention, so much so that if you were unaware of the importance of your words, you’d find it unnerving. Instead you know perfectly well the gravity of your words, the prominence of your information, and you know full well that what you have said will be used to destroy the assassins even further than they already have been.

The Brotherhood was crumbling to pieces when you left – now you might just be the cause of its collapse.

When all is said and done and your mouth is dry from all the words you have spoken, Haytham nods in satisfaction.

“I think that answers all our questions,” he says, pleased, and you’re exhausted and ready to be thrown out or killed. You hardly glance at Shay or the Grand Master, hardly interested in the seeing the order given, in seeing the weapon Shay chooses to kill you with. Or perhaps the Grand Master will do it himself, you think, eyeing the hidden blades strapped to his forearms. Are you important enough for that?

“Shay,” says Haytham and all you can think is _this is it._ “Please escort our thief here to the guest rooms.”

You blink. “ _What_?”

Shay gives you a roguish grin. “We could always let your sleep outside, if ye like.”

“Shay,” warns the Grand Master and the other Templar shrugs.

“I was only jokin’,” he says. He gestures to you to get out of your seat, none too patient about it, and you hurriedly follow his wordless instruction.

“Get some sleep,” Haytham tells you, “we sail for New York in the morning.”

You blink again, your mouth drier than it had been before. “I’m going with you?”

“You’re not staying here,” he tells you firmly. “There is still much more you can tell us.”

 _Is there_? You wonder, but when Shay gently takes your arm you go willingly.

* * *

The Morrigan is small and slight and fast and Shay handles her with care and reverence.

You’ve only ever been on a ship once but the Captain had been so insistent on reaching his destination as quickly as possible that you’d spent more of it cooped up below deck, vomiting into a bucket at the side of your bed and hating the jostling of the ship on the waves. You’d decided then and there that you’d never _ever_ get on a ship again, ever, no matter how dire the circumstances, but bringing this up to Haytham and Shay hadn’t been an option. They’re already suspicious of you and you’d correctly assumed that any attempt to persuade them to let you leave would be seen as a way for you to return to the brothers and sisters you’ve betrayed, or a way for you to get yourself killed.

There’s ice on the winds as the Morrigan sails and you draw the collar of your coat up higher, tug your scarf a little tighter. Evidently Shay and Haytham are in no hurry to return to New York and Shay has not called for full sails yet, meaning you can enjoy the fresh air for a little longer. You haven’t lurched for the side yet and you’re feeling well and free, freer than you think you have in a long time. How long has it been since you’ve been able to live like this? Since you’ve been able to live without the constraints of a Brotherhood that cares not for the lives of the innocent? Since you’ve been able to live without the constraints of a creed that holds no meaning for you anymore?

“Are you well?”

The silent manner in which he manages to approach you is startling, and you’re struck again by the idea that Haytham Kenway could probably kill you with very little effort. You’re far too easily distracted lately, far too easy to sneak up on, and truly you’re lucky that he seems to think your life still has some use.

Where would you go otherwise, you start to think. Where could you go to escape the hunters? Where could you go to be free?

“Very well, thank you,” you return politely, and you hope your voice remains level so as to not give away the turmoil of your thoughts.

He appears sceptical but doesn’t pursue; he changes the subject and you’re grateful.

“I shall have a room prepared for you upon our arrival,” he says. “You shall be given the full protection at my disposal. No harm shall befall you while you are in my care.”

You frown and gather the remnants of the courage you think you should be long gone by now to brave asking, “Why?”

He doesn’t say anything for a long while and you think he’s being careful with his words, or how he phrases them.

“You have left your life as an assassin behind,” he says at last, “but neither have you decided to take up arms against them. This leaves you somewhere in the middle, a pawn to be used. Until such a time as you choose your side, I cannot in good conscience let you go knowing it will no doubt result in your death.”

He’s not wrong, you think. You were a thief first, before you were ever an assassin, and you value stealth over action. But however he phrases his words, however he tries to make it seem like he’s doing this to protect you, you can see through it.

“Choose my side,” you echo with a scoff. “You mean choose _your_ side.”

“You know too much while not knowing enough,” Haytham says simply, not even fazed by the bite in your words. “It is my hope that you might… _learn_.”

You won’t admit to him but you think you’re already on the path. You can see the flaws in the Assassin’s Creed quite clearly now, now that you’ve detached yourself from them and left them behind. You can see that they fight for chaos, not peace, and you understand that achieving peace means establishing order as well.

You nod once to acknowledge his words but he’s already walking away.

* * *

Haytham allows you full roam of the house – with its limitations, of course – and you take the questioning scowls of the other Templars in your stride. You don’t intend to stay for long (the sooner you can find your way to a ship and away from these ridiculous colonies, the better) but until your plan can come to fruition, you’re going to make the best of your situation.

You don’t see much of the Grand Master, and even Shay is conspicuous in his absence, and, dare you say it, you’re getting lonely in this large and impressive house. You daren’t approach any of the others, not when they look at you with enough scorn as it is, and the only one who you think might be approachable is Mr Gist who’s always at Shay and Haytham’s beck and call.

You’ve raided the library for interesting books and hidden them away in your room, content to remain in the small space that’s been given to you and to see as little of the Templars as possible, but all the exciting stories in the world can’t combat your loneliness.

Things take a turn for the _different_ – because it’s by no means a _good thing_ that happens to you but neither is it the _worst thing_ to happen – one evening while you’re lying in bed, bored out of your mind but in no way tired. You’ve reached the end of your pile of books and have just decided that you’re going to visit the library and get some more when you hear it.

There’s a strange clicking at your window, once every ten seconds, and you stupidly go to investigate, tugging open the window that, _really_ , if Haytham Kenway was serious about keeping you here, surely this window would be locked or barred or _something_ –

Your irritated thoughts are cut off by a hard and round object being tossed into your room at your feet, and you have a split second to see what it is before it explodes.

You stumble back from the window, coughing as the smoke that was once your own preferred method rises around you, stinging at your eyes and burning in your lungs. _Damn_ , you think, _this stuff is really brutal_ , but any other thoughts you might have are side-tracked by the blade in the dark.

You dodge just in time and the sharp metal catches your side. You stumble into the table, knocking the vase and flowers from its surface and dismayed when you hear it smash upon impact with the floor. You’re still coughing and struggling to catch your breath but as the smoke clears you see him- Alfie. His hood is drawn but his posture is unmistakable; you’ve known him your whole life, after all, but now you can barely choke out his name.

Your hands clutch at the table behind you, your chest heaving with shock, but Alfie is stone cold in his objective; you’re unarmed and he wants you _dead_.

You choke out his name again but your eyes dart towards the door. Alfie lunges at you and you step aside, bringing your knee up to catch him in the side. He grunts and you flee for the door, the handle within grasp just as your former brother tackles you to the floor. You shriek upon landing, the hard floor catching your wounded side, and your punches are sloppy and wild as you try to throw your attacker off.

Alfie’s hidden blade comes down on your throat and you wrench your head to the side, feeling the metal nick the skin and the blood start to pour, but you’ve managed to keep yourself alive- _for now_.

“ _Get off_!” you shout furiously, your vision clouded with red; Alfie was your _friend_ and now he’s trying to kill you. What kind of loyalty is that, what kind of creed dictates that?

Your fist connects enough to throw his weight from you once more and you scramble to get to your feet, kicking at his hands that try to reach for you, screaming in agony at the dagger that slices at your leg as he tries to stop you. You thought once that assassins were stealthy – _never compromise the brotherhood, isn’t that one of the tenants_ , you think deliriously, followed by, _NOT THE TIME_ – but Alfie is making a pig’s ear of this, uncaring of your suffering or the noise you make.

Then you start to wonder how long he’s been watching the house. Does he know something you don’t? Are you alone in this magnificent home? Is that why he’s striking now?

The door is thrown open quite suddenly and you hear your name shouted – it sounds farther away though, farther away than the gunshot that echoes through your room and the furious orders that are barked over the top of Alfie’s pained screams.

 _That’s right, you bastard_ , you think, feeling your blood on your neck and chest, trying to catch your breath. _Hurts doesn’t it?_

“Keep him alive,” Haytham orders and you don’t move from the floor, bloody hands on the floor and your chest heaving. “I want answers from him.”

It’s not until he’s dragged from the room, blood pooled in the spot where he once was, that you start to realise what you’ve endured, what you’ve survived. You remember again what you’d thought in that alley after you’d returned those documents; _I’m no good at anything_.

Once an assassin, you think, but you couldn’t even prevent an assassination attempt on your own life.

Wide-eyed and terrified, your reaction is instantaneous when hands ghost gently over your flesh, over your wounds and bloody hands. You jerk away, your hands in fists and ready to fight off the new attacker, but Haytham only grabs your wrists, preventing you from doing so and uncaring of your blood that stains the sleeves of his white shirt.

“Breathe,” Haytham orders gently. “Breathe.”

You do so shakily, unable to see anything but his stern expression in front of you, softening in the face of your fear and shock, and when you reach for his shoulders, staining his shirt even further he doesn’t try to stop you. When you pull yourself closer to him, up on your knees and your hands still shaking on his shoulders, he does nothing except let you.

When you launch yourself at him, tears stinging at your eyes, you expect to be pushed away but he lets you, lets you snuggle into him, cry into his ruined shirt and breathe him in. He’s warm and safe, words you never thought you’d associate with a Templar, and you’re still bleeding and scared – you imagine you might just be the worst assassin to have ever lived.

 _No_ , you think, _I’m no assassin. I’m a thief. It’s all I’ve ever been_.

The Grand Master gathers you close and carries you from the room, from the blood on your floor and the broken vase by the window, and while he cleans you up you welcome your exhaustion gladly, allowing sleep to take you with little fight.

* * *

You wake in the morning in an unfamiliar bed in an unfamiliar room with unfamiliar hands peeling at bandages and checking your wounds.

You jerk away, memories of the events of the night before still fresh in your mind, and Haytham Kenway is at your side in an instant, pressing you back to the bed and shushing you. He’s changed his shirt and appears to be preparing for his day; his hair is neatly in place, tied with the red ribbon the same shade as his necktie, his waistcoat buttoned up.

“Alfie,” you gasp as you calm, clutching at Haytham’s arms. “He- Where-“

“Dead,” Haytham returns. “He outlived his usefulness.”

The blunt statement should instil anger in you – once your brother, once your _friend_ – but instead you feel hollow. He tried to _kill_ you and probably would have succeeded if you’d been alone. You swallow nervously, your hands still clenched around the sleeves of the Grand Master’s shirt, and your stuck with the sudden realisation that you now have a debt to pay off.

You _owe_ Haytham Kenway your life.

You can hardly breathe.

“You’re safe,” Haytham assures, “no one else will slip past our defences again.”

Apparently he hadn’t expected that anyone might in the first place. Slowly you release him, calming slightly, and he continues to murmur assurances to you while you come to turns with the new direction you think your life might be taking now.

“You saved me,” you utter softly, and his dark blue eyes study your face curiously. “Alfie would have…”

It doesn’t bear to think about.

An assassin you had been, trying only to do what’s right, and now you’re a thief and a traitor, with no home and no cause to fight for. Haytham’s hands pick cautiously at the bandage on your neck and they still when you lean away, confused and wary.

“It needs to be changed,” he says slowly and calmly, and you get the impression that this is how he would act to calm a spooked horse. His fingers picking at the sodden white reminds you of the blow that could have killed you and you nod slowly. If Haytham wanted you dead, you think you probably wouldn’t argue with him right now.

You don’t say anything until Haytham backs away, fresh bandages on your wounds, and a comfortable silence hanging over the room.

Haytham breaks it by saying, “Shay was quite furious to hear what had happened.”

“Where was he?” you find yourself asking, peering hesitantly at him, wondering if he’ll answer you at all. Your allegiances still lie with no one but yourself, after all, but you think the pieces of the chess board are beginning to move. Haytham had called you a pawn once and you wonder if that’s still true.

“Tending to the Morrigan,” Haytham says. “We think your… attacker waited until he was out of the building before making his move.”

You nod slowly. “As assassins we’re taught to consider every possible outcome. He probably wanted to avoid Shay, the biggest threat in the household.”

“He was quite mistaken with that assumption,” says Haytham, a tad smugly, and you huff a laugh.

“Quite,” you agree. After a breath, you tell him, “I owe you my life, Master Kenway.”

“A dangerous thing indeed to owe.”

“Very.” You pause. “What will you do with it?”

He shrugs on his coat as he considers, the navy blue so familiar to you despite how little time you have spent together. He doesn’t seem to expect the question, you think, but he’s careful with his answer nonetheless.

“At this moment?” He reaches for his hat, completing his look. “Nothing.”

You mouth the word because it’s not what you’d expected in the slightest, but Haytham is going for the door, his back to you.

“Do try and eat something,” he throws over his shoulder, opening the door and hovering in the doorway, shooting you one last look. He seems to want to say something but changes his mind and settles instead on, “Shay will keep you safe. Do not worry.”

 _He’s not the one I want to keep me safe_ , you nearly say, because while you know the Irishman is an excellent fighter, he’s not the one who saved your life last night.

 _He_ ’s leaving the room now, closing the door softly behind him.

* * *

Shay’s a fantastic teacher and you’re a quick learner.

He strikes quickly and defends even quicker and the two of you have reached a stalemate, sweating and panting and holding weapons in front of you as if your lives depend on it. In a real fight, you think, they _will_.

It had been a good idea of his to train you up a bit more, to expand on what little skill joining the assassins had given you and to help build your confidence after the attempt on your life. There have been others since, all thwarted by the Templars in this large house – some more disgruntledly than others – but you’re growing tired of needing rescued all the time and starting to realise that _you_ have done nothing wrong.

You stole those documents back because they were going to use them for ill; you saved _lives_ and they want yours because of it. You’re not willing to give it to them without a fight.

“Good,” Shay calls, darting towards you with his hidden blade drawn. You duck and dart to the side, drawing your own blade and searching for an opening where there is none. Shay is not going easy on you anymore – _you’re not going to learn anything if I make this easy on ye, darlin’_ , he’d said earlier, as he helped you up from the ground – and it’s not like you didn’t _know_ how to fight, you just always chose not to. It’s made you sloppy, made you an easy target, and you’re willing to do anything to make sure you’re not caught off guard again.

The pommel of Shay’s sword catches you in the gut and you’re completely winded when his elbow catches your jaw, knocking you off your feet. You land hard, gasping and sweating and just generally feeling disgusting, and you lie there for a few moments trying to catch your breath.

Shay reaches down to help you up and you wave him off.

“I think that’s enough for today,” you manage to gasp, dragging yourself to a sitting position and steadfastly ignoring the grin that lifts the Irishman’s lips.

“Aw, come on,” he says and you’re pleased to see that he’s out of breath too, “haven’t beaten you too hard, have I?”

“You wish,” you grumble and you finally accept the hand that helps you to your feet.

Shay grins and just when you think he’s going to say something else, his eyes drift past you, over your shoulder, and his expression slackens and grows serious.

“Master Kenway,” he calls, “back so soon?”

You’re not sure where Haytham went, exactly, but it’s been weeks since you’ve properly seen him in the manor, longer still you think since the morning after your attack, when he’d changed your bandages and cleaned your wounds and looked after you.

“Indeed,” returns Haytham. His eyes flit over you and Shay curiously, your sweat soaked bodies and your heaving chests, the weapons in your hands. He’s surprised, you realise blearily, struggling to control your breathing and hoping you’re not flushing too hard. How long was he standing there for? Did he see your embarrassing failure just then?

Haytham says your name and then, politely, you think, but also pointedly, “Good afternoon,” and you _know_ he saw Shay pummel you in the gut two minutes ago.

“Afternoon,” you return, massaging your stomach and thinking you can already feel the blossoming bruise you’re going to have.

Shay decides then that he has to excuse himself.

“There’s still much to do on the Morrigan to have her sea-ready for tomorrow,” he explains and while it’s a perfectly valid excuse, you’re sure you can hear a lie on his lips. He’s barely spent any time _away_ from the Morrigan lately, why would she still –

You shake your head, refusing to think any more on it.

“Same time tomorrow?” you press instead and immediately you know you’ve fallen into his trap.

“Well, perhaps Master Kenway could teach you a thing or two,” he says slyly. “There’s no better fighter than our Grand Master.”

You flounder for words. “I’m sure he has more important things to be doing –“

“I’d be happy to,” says Haytham smugly and that appears to be that.

* * *

_And he_ _is good_.  

You don’t think you’ve ever met a fighter like him – but then, it’s easy for you to say that because you’ve never liked fighting that much – and it takes everything you have to dodge and parry. He’s lightning fast and just as deadly and now you know for sure if he had caught you that day in his office, you wouldn’t be standing here now.

(But then, with the amount of hits he’s landed on you, _really_ you don’t think you’re going to be standing tomorrow.)

He’s as ruthless as Shay in your training – _going easy on you will help no one but our enemies_ , Haytham had said, after another good hit and as you’d gasped and panted on the floor at his feet - and you’re so focussed on his movements that you barely hear his words. His strikes are hard and fast and his parries strong and bold, and just when you think you might be winning, he pulls another move from his arsenal and turns the tables on you.

You’re never going to be able to beat him, you think glumly, blocking another of his strikes and stumbling backwards. He’s just too good.

He surprises you by barking your name worriedly, and you realise why in the seconds after, when your heel catches on a loose cobblestone and you lose your balance. You shriek embarrassingly and fling your arms out, looking for something to grab onto, and you catch the sleeves of Haytham’s shirt.

You land heavily and in a pile of limbs, tangled up in the Grand Master and with his face mere inches from yours. You’re both out of breath and panting but you imagine it’s not just from exertion anymore. You exhale shakily, Haytham’s handsome face the only thing you can see, and when his eyes dart to your lips longingly, it’s all you can do not to beg him right then and there.

Instead, you say, as shakily as your breath, “Sorry about that…” and he seems to snap out of it.

“Oh, ah,” he starts, gathering his wits about him and slowly getting to his feet, still graceful despite the tumble, “quite alright.”

It’s your own fault the two of you ended up in that situation, your own fault that you know now his eyes are grey and that he has a little scar his cheek, no bigger than your thumbnail. You never would have noticed it if not for the awkwardness of your situation.

You can’t meet his eyes now, staring at the cobblestones beneath your feet and toeing the loose one, the offender that caused all the problems.

“I think that’s, uh,” you start, your voice no more than a mumble, as embarrassed as you are. “I think that’s enough for today. Thank you, Master Kenway, for your help.”

He nods politely. “We should do this more often.”

You flinch, and cannot stop yourself, “Well, maybe not the falling down part.”

He surprises you once again.

“Why not? It wasn’t particularly unenjoyable.”

At first you think you haven’t heard him correctly and all you can do is say smartly, “Pardon?” as you attempt to compose yourself. His answering smile is wry and crooked, mischievous, you might even say. You can only describe the way he turns his body towards you and steps slowly forward as predatory, and the smile on his face has turned wolfish to match.

“Do you disagree?” he asks and you tear your eyes away from his face to the red tie at his neck, still perfectly in place in spite of it all.

“No,” you admit, feeling foolish, “I don’t.”

He tips your head up with fingers on your chin, gently but firmly, and you can’t avoid it any longer; those grey eyes study your face curiously and warily, waiting for you to back away, waiting for you to refuse. How can you? How can you back away, how can you leave him here, when this is all you think you’ve wanted since he charged into your room and saved your life?

His breath is warm on your lips, so, _so_ close, and a month ago you would’ve never thought of this happening. A month ago, Haytham Kenway had found you in his office and wanted you dead. A month ago, you’d turned your back on your creed and chosen a different path.

“Master Kenway-!”

He’s done it on _purpose_ , you think sourly, Charles Lee and his incessant need to please the Grand Master.

To his credit, Haytham looks as bothered by the interruption as you are. He draws away reluctantly and seems even more so to dismiss you but you know the other Templar’s opinions of your presence and you bid them good afternoon yourself.

If you’re still blushing when you get back to your room, who’s to know?

* * *

He summons you later, under the guise of needing to discuss your allegiances with you, and you’ve barely entered the room before he shuts the door and presses you against it.

His kiss is insistent and heated, biting and sucking at your bottom lip while his hands grab at every part of you he can; your hips, your waist, your shoulders, your neck. They ghost over your collarbone and caress your jaw, and when finally you break apart he rests his forehead against yours, breathing you in some more.

You had come here with the intention of telling him that you were going to stay here, with him. You came here to tell him that you weren’t going to leave – not that he could let you, anyway. You owe Haytham your life, this you and he both know, but even if you didn’t you want to think you’d stay anyway.

You tell him so, gasped between kisses, and he responds by tugging you closer, lifting you up. You wrap your legs around his waist, arching your back as his fingers toy with the neckline of your shirt before jerking it over your head.

Neither of you have locked the door, and while the thought fills your gut with excitement, you can only hope whoever dares to think to interrupt has the common sense to come back later.


	8. Jealousy [Connor]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _His returning smile is gentle, his eyes even more so despite his words, and for the first time in days you don’t feel like stabbing his eyes out._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> requested by lovatic-3468 on tumblr!

Her hand grazes his arm and her laugh is loud and charming, just like the rest of her, and what you wouldn’t give to storm over there and smack that smirk off her face.

He doesn’t look over at you, hasn’t done since your argument those couple of days ago, and you’re not sure if that’s the reason you’re so irritable lately or if it’s something else entirely.

You’re not jealous, you’re _not._

(You are. _Boy_ , are you _jealous_.)

You don’t want to be – _there is nothing to be envious of_ , Connor had told you and you’d been so angry and threatened that you’d scoffed and all but told his to _piss off_ with his stupid, naïve face – but it’s hard. Anna’s an assassin, beautiful and elegant and deadly, and you’re _you_. It’s hard not to feel somewhat inadequate when you stand beside her.

Another irritated sigh escapes your lips as you watch them, training again, sweating and panting under the harsh noon sun. They’re laughing and joyful and you’re angry and bitter, watching from afar and wishing Anna would just _trip_ or something.

(She doesn’t; she’s way too elegant for _that_.)

With an annoyed shake of your head, you turn away, deciding that enough is enough and you’re not going to watch this anymore, not when you have things to be doing. They can train all day if they like, but _some_ one has to run the Homestead, and if Connor isn’t going to do it, then that just leaves you.

Not for the first time, you start to wish Achilles were still here, start to wish you had someone other than the multitude of assassin students bustling around the Homestead to confide in. The students are as close as siblings, often affectionately calling each other _brother_ and _sister_ and to speak ill of one of their own, you worry, would perhaps turn them _all_ against you.

You might not be on the best of terms with most of them but you can understand that you’d rather your relationship with them all be rocky than downright hostile.

You’re making plans to gather some flowers for Achilles’ grave when they wander in, their laughter echoing in the halls and trailing mud over the floors you’d polished yesterday. You smile sweetly at Anna as she passes – because even if you fester a vague dislike for the woman, you’re not going to let _her_ know that – and you bypass Connor completely, reaching for the basket on the dresser and deciding there’s no better time than the present.

The flowers you’d laid on Achilles’ grave last week could be done with replacing.

He says your name, quietly and confused, and you’re out the door and holding your head up high without a look in his direction.

* * *

A few more days pass like this, with Anna and Connor training and you pretending to be ignorant to it all, with you gathering your flowers and looking after the Homestead. More often you’re finding yourself going to Achilles’ grave, searching for the strength not to kill someone, not to lose your head, and trying to imagine what he’d tell you if he was here.

You miss his guidance, miss his cynical world view and dry humour. When you can’t get to his grave, you find yourself sitting at the fireplace below his family’s portrait, _searching_.

The sky has turned grey and the door opens and closes, over and over, as more and more footsteps start to echo through the once empty house. You hear them last, hear her tinkling laugh and his rumbling voice, and immediately your mood darkens.

You start to get to your feet, anticipating their entry into the lounge area and deciding you’d really much rather go to your room and be alone, when they round the corner. Immediately, your heart sinks, and you’re rushing over and helping before you can talk yourself out of it.

They’re assassins, they deal with this all the time and they probably don’t need your help at all.

But there’s something about the sight of blood in the Homestead that never fails to spur you into action, no matter what the circumstances, no matter who bears the injury.

Connor sets Anna down on one of the sturdy chairs at the dining table as you pull away the ripped fabric from his shirt that serves as a makeshift bandage. The wound on Anna’s arm is deep and oozing blood, and while the sight of it makes you want to gag, you force yourself to remain useful – because you’ve started now, and you feel inadequate enough around her. You’re not going to back away now when you’ve just made a point of coming over here.

“Can you get the first aid kit from the kitchen, Connor?” you ask sweetly, focussing on the wound and still maintaining your angry silence with him wherever necessary. “And a bowl of warm water, please.”

He says nothing but you can feel him as he brushes past you on the way out.

“He’s really trying, you know,” Anna says softly, and she flinches when you poke and prod at her wound. You’re a little harsher than you intended to be and your mumbled apology is sincere when you’d really rather it wasn’t.

You say nothing.

“He doesn’t know what he’s done but he really wants to fix it,” she continues.

You scoff. “He knows _exactly_ what he’s done.”

Apparently your relationship problems have been discussed between the two, you think angrily, and isn’t that just more salt to the wound. _Such a great couple_ , you think with a scowl, because isn’t that what everyone’s been saying around the Homestead?

You’re pretty sure that’s what they used to say about you and Connor too, and look at what’s happened there.

“We were getting flowers,” Anna says softly and you finally look at her, hating how much prettier she is up close. “For you.”

You pause, your hands hovering over her wound. “What?” you ask, confused, and you cast your eyes towards the kitchen, where you can hear Connor rattling pots and pans. “Near the stove!”

The rattling abruptly stops and Connor appears in the doorway, sheepish and holding the small box of first aid materials in one hand a bowl in the other.

“It was my own fault,” Anna says, with that charming laugh and a toss of her beautiful hair. “I thought we were fine and then that bear came out of nowhere.”

“Bear,” you repeat, and your eyes flicker over to Connor, unimpressed.

“Yes,” laughs Anna. “I didn’t even hear it.”

“She felt threatened,” puts in Connor. He sets down the bowl of water on the table beside Anna. “We were too close to her cubs.”

“You didn’t kill her, did you?” you ask fearfully. You can’t bear the thought of those bear cubs alone in the woods, especially not when there’s a storm coming.

He shakes his head. “I injured her but she fled before I could cast the killing blow.”

 _So blunt_ , you muse and you huff a laugh, reaching for the box and smiling your thanks. His returning smile is gentle, his eyes even more so despite his words, and for the first time in days you don’t feel like stabbing his eyes out. Your fingers brush his as you take the box from his hands and the connection between the two of you is broken only by Anna coughing lightly, still clutching at the wound on her arm but watching the two of you guiltily.

 _I knew it_ , you think triumphantly, recalling Connor’s words about how you shouldn’t be envious. Why else would Anna look so guilty if she wasn’t up to something?

There’s another student loitering in the doorway, watching the three of you cautiously until Connor turns to greet him. They exchange hushed words as you start to clean Anna’s wound, gently but insistently, sympathetic towards her hissing breaths but firm in the necessity of your harshness.

“I will be back,” Connor announces. He lingers at your side, as though waiting for you to say something, and when you don’t, he leans in quickly and kisses your cheek in parting.

You’ve missed it.

Anna doesn’t speak again until you’re winding a bandage around her arm, cream in colour but slowly staining red with the blood that still oozes from her wound. You don’t stop wrapping until you can’t see the stain anymore.

“I’m sorry.”

“Hm?”

An apology is the last thing you expect; you realise that her guilty look from before can only mean one thing but for her to own up to it has set you back a step.

She looks sheepish.

“I didn’t think,” she pauses, biting her lip and casting her eyes to the floor, “I didn’t think he would try so hard to win back your affection.”

In truth, you’re not sure you expected him to either. He’d been so nonchalant about your insecurity, about your jealousy, that you were sure the two of you were on the rocks and headed for the cliff. You smile gently at Anna, knotting the bandage and stepping back.

She smiles gratefully and rubs the back of her neck.

“The flowers were my idea,” she admits, “a way for me to help him fix what I might have broken.”

Sincerely, you say, “Thank you.”

She shrugs, starts to get to her feet. Behind her, rain starts to batter the window, fat drops that you know will be on for the night.

“We women have to stick together,” Anna says and her accompanying smile is shaky and unsure.

Your heart softens. _Yes_ , you think, _we do_. You start to gather the bowl and first aid supplies from the table and Anna’s lingering about unsurely, fidgeting on the spot and kicking at the carpet. It’s strangely endearing, charming like the rest of her.

You huff a laugh, and brave suggesting:

“Help me prepare dinner?”

* * *

When Connor returns to the Homestead it’s to the sight of Anna and yourself sharing a bottle, laughing about nonsense while supper boils on the stove, and as soon as you catch sight of his sodden clothes you’re hurrying him up the stairs.

“Change,” you insist. There’s a flush to your cheeks that you’re not sure is from the drink or the company. Anna hollers something unintelligible from the kitchen, farther gone than yourself. You chuckle in spite of yourself, and remain in control enough to add, “Any longer in this clothes and you’ll catch a cold.”

“I was led to believe you and Anna do not get along,” Connor says, and if you didn’t know him well enough, you’d mistake the confusion in his voice for teasing.

“Nonsense,” you respond and you lean up to peck his cheek, ushering him up the stairs. “She’s perfectly lovely.”

Bewildered, he heeds your order and starts off up the stairs.


	9. Safety and Peace [Shay Cormac]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _And for a moment he looks so like the Shay you remember: the Shay who consoled you after a particularly bad screw-up; the Shay who charged into your room when you woke shivering and sobbing from a jarring nightmare; the Shay who remained by your side while you struggled to return to sleep; the Shay who promised you safety and peace and that he’d never betray or leave you._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> fun fact: this was my first ever Shay one-shot. Holds a special place in my heart because of this. (◕‿◕✿)

It’s _him_.

It has to be; it can’t be anyone else.

He’s _alive_ and _breathing_ and you’re so crazily overjoyed that you almost leap right off that roof and right into his arms.

As it stands though, you can’t do that.

You can’t do that because you’re an _assassin_ , and Shay is talking to your _target_ – your _bloody target,_ and why the _hell_ is he conversing with a Templar informant in the first place? -  and he’s wearing black and red, colours that blind you to everything else.

Even from this distance you can _see_ the Templar cross on his chest.

Your heart aches.

He a Templar, you an assassin – someone up there is playing a cruel, cruel joke. First he was dead, now he’s the enemy; you don’t understand what you’ve done to earn such bad luck.

You want to reach for him, want to run your hands through his dark hair and kiss the scar over his eyebrow. You just want to _touch_ him and you can’t remember what colour his eyes are, it’s been _too_ long.

You need to leave – _now_ , before you do something you’ll regret, before he sees you, before he sees the robes and the Assassin’s crest over your heart. You don’t know how the Templars have changed him – you hadn’t even known he was _alive_ until two seconds ago! – and you’ve heard the rumours from your fellow assassins; about the Assassin turned Assassin Hunter.

You just hadn’t known it was him – no one had told you.

Now you know why they wouldn’t.

 _I’ve been a fool_ , you think furiously. _I’ve been trying to clear the name of a man who’s guilty as shit_.

You haven’t moved from that damned roof, with your hood drawn over your head and your eyes glaring holes into the two _Templars_. If you linger here any longer, they’ll notice you, you _know_ that, but your body has turned to lead and part of you _aches_ for Shay to look up, to see you, even if it would mean your death.

He won’t know it’s you, he might kill you on the spot and only prove what everyone is saying about him.

You _want_ him to, you find, because you can’t comprehend that he’s the same Shay he’s always been _and_ a Templar. It’s not _right_ – it can’t be right.

You want to look in his eyes and _see_ that they’re different- it’s the only way you’ll be able to live with yourself.

You shift on the rooftop; Shay has turned and is walking away from your target and _now_ is the time to strike. You can’t let your target get away – you’ve delayed too long as it is.

You move too quickly, too soon, too distracted, and you can hear Hope’s words in your head, the scolding you’re going to get. Impatience has always been your problem, _distractions_ have always been your problem, but Shay and Liam were always there to help.

You’re on your own now, and the man you once called _friend_ has murder in his eyes and a pistol in his hand.

The chase begins.

You haven’t thought this through at all, you realise immediately, because Shay’s always been a fast runner and the streets are too empty and he’s got a _pistol_. You need to even the score- and _fast_.

You know these streets like the back of your hand- after all, there’s a reason Hope specifically asks for you to do these missions. You always have an out, _always_ , and you always have a back-up plan (except for right now, apparently, because you’re making this up as you go and you really Hope doesn’t find out about this).

A bullet whizzes past your arm, catching the sleeve of your jacket, and you decide that now is a good time to dart into alleys and disappear. You’re good at that, at disappearing, and if Shay knew that it was you he’d know better than to try and keep chasing you.

It’s midday and the streets are thankfully busy. With so many innocent people around you hope Shay will be forced to holster his pistol. He doesn’t fire again and you slip into the crowd and press your way through as gently as you can risk. The spaces between people are just big enough for you to slip through without bringing much attention to yourself but shouts carry overhead as Shay pursues, pushing people aside in what you can only imagine is anger.

You’re angry too; he’s killed more of your friends than you can count, it only seems fair that you can return the favour.

It’s Hope’s words, said to you when you knew only that there was an Assassin Hunter and not _who_ it was, after you’d heard that friends of yours had been slaughtered in Boston and New York, that the Hunter was still at large.

You grit your teeth and dart from the crowd into dark alleys, hiding in the shadows in the way you’ve been trained. He won’t find you, _can’t_ find you, not when you’re not sure he’ll recognise you or even stop to try.

Another five minutes of running and you’ve lost him, you’re sure of it, and you lean against a cold wall as you catch your breath. Your heart is pounding in your chest, thundering in your ears, and you should _know better_ than to let your guard down for even a second-

He’s always been unbearably good at this part, always been so guilty about it but so _good_ at it.

He descends from above, in a technique so familiar that you’re kicking yourself for walking right into the trap you’ve laid for other unsuspecting targets countless times before.

Your breath leaves your body in a rush as you’re crushed under his larger body and your hood falls to your shoulders as you fall, your last defence against who you once called friend.

You hear his intake of breath as he sees your face, hear the retraction of his hidden blade as he scrambles to his feet and backs away from you.

There’s a snarl on your lips and contempt in your words. “What? I doubt it was this hard when you cut down the others.”

He breathes your name and reaches out for you. You smack it away and gracelessly get to your feet before him and your glare never loses its heat, not even this close to him where you can see every little detail on his face that you’ve loved since meeting him.

He’s lost the god-awful moustache and he looks older somehow, wiser, his hair pulled back from his face and tied at the back of his neck. There’s a scar through his right eyebrow and you can’t help it; you’re _intimidated_ and you’ve never felt like this before him, _never_ , not even when his temper got the better of him. He seems sinister somehow now and perhaps your close connection him before is saving your life now.

He’s hesitating when he could be reaching for a weapon and you’re staring at him, dumbfounded and angry, when _you_ could be reaching for a weapon and striking him down- vengeance for your lost brothers and sisters, slain by the very man who stands before you struggling to find the words to say.

And for a moment he looks so like the Shay you remember: the Shay who consoled you after a particularly bad screw-up; the Shay who charged into your room when you woke shivering and sobbing from a jarring nightmare; the Shay who remained by your side while you struggled to return to sleep; the Shay who promised you safety and peace and that he’d never betray or leave you.

How young and naïve you’ve been – there’s no saving him, not now.

He says you name again, reaches for you _again_ -

Your hand moves instinctually. The smoke offers none of the protection you’d hoped it would, none of the aid it would give you against untrained enemies.

You escape only because Shay lets you.

* * *

Hope takes your rage with a pinch of salt and hardly a care.

“Careful,” she warns idly, “one might think this news will interfere with your ability to perform your duty.”

Your breath is as shaky as your hands and when you close your eyes all you can see is Shay, invasive and yearning memories that have haunted you since you fled from him. You’re absolutely sure Hope isn’t surprised by the news of his pursuit of you- you’re equally sure that none of her men told her before you did.

You clench your fists. “You knew this would happen.”

“I did,” she concedes. Then, her warning again, “Careful. You’re starting to sound like him.”

“Don’t –“

“I will,” she interrupts. She looks triumphant. “He let you live, can’t you see? This is our chance to be rid of him.”

You know what she’s insinuating, it’s not hard to figure out, but you also know _you can’t do it_.

He’s Shay and he’s a _Templar_ but he’s also _Shay_ and you’ve known him forever, and even if he’s _doing his duty_ to them and smiting any assassin he comes across, you _can’t do it._

He’s Shay and he’s your friend and you’d rather kill yourself than force your blade through his heart.

But you can’t tell Hope that.

Instead, you say, “You let me believe I could prove his innocence.”

An accusation, pitiful and ridiculous sounding now that you know the truth. Hope barely reacts.

She nods once, curtly, and tells you, “The truth would have broken you.”

She means to deceive you, to lead you to believe she lied to you to show how she cares but you know the truth. They need you; news that your friend was beyond saving, condemned by the highest members of the Brotherhood, would make you useless to them.

You return her curt nod with one of your own but you can’t force yourself to speak. You’re beginning to see why Shay left; lies and deceit… was this the beginning of the end for Shay and the Brotherhood?

Hope says your name and her stare is hard and her voice firm. “Can I trust you to do this?”

 _No_ , you want to say but if she’s not being honest with you why should you return the favour?

So you say, “Yes, of course,” and leave the room as quickly as you can.

* * *

It’s easy to find him after the first time, easy to spot him prowling the streets when before you’d overlook him. Before you’d thought nothing of the man in black pushing through crowds but now the jacket only serves to make him stand out, to show him for who he is.

His eyes catch yours briefly and with a curt tilt of your head you know you’ve got your point across. You turn on your heel and stride to the centre of the roof, awaiting his arrival and doubting yourself again, doubting your ability to fulfil your duty.

Hope expects you to do this, Liam expects you to do this, Achilles and Chevalier and every brother and sister you’ve lost to Shay’s vengeance.

But he’s standing across from you and looking so hopeful and any thoughts you’d had of stabbing him before he can speak disappear because he’s _alive_. You remember the days before, seeing him again, wishing to damn the consequences and throw yourself into his arms because he’s _alive_ and _damn it all to hell_ but you miss him.

“I didn’t think I’d see ya again,” he says as a greeting and your voice dries up in your throat.

Just a simple conversation is so hard now that you know what he’s done. Your hands clench into fists at your side and you have to force yourself to remain on that roof.

“You nearly didn’t,” you tell him and the bite in your voice comes only from brutal honesty.

He doesn’t seem to notice, or he doesn’t care. “What changed your mind?”

 _Hope did_ , you want to say, _and for all the wrong reasons_.

Instead you shrug because you don’t have a believable lie to tell him.

His eyes never leave your face and it’s unbearable, the hope you see there; it’s too reminiscent of before, of years as novices together, completing missions with Liam and worrying only about impressing Achilles and Hope.

There was no blood on his hands back then, he wasn’t a brother-killer, and you didn’t have to strike him down at the nearest opportunity.

“I trust ya’ve been well?”

And there’s no hiding the bite in your words this time, no matter how hard you try, no matter how much you’re supposed to be getting close to him.

“Very well,” you snap, “as well one can be when a hunter has been striking down friends left, right and centre.”

You won’t feel guilty about your words, you _won’t_ , and it doesn’t matter how hurt Shay looks, how _guilty_. He knows what he’s doing, he’s always _known_ , and you’ve suffered for his actions, like you’ve continued to suffer since returning from your mission and hearing the news that your friend was _dead_.

This is a wound that continues to be opened and reopened for someone to pour salt in it and _rub_.

You sigh. You’d underestimated how hard this would be, to act normal while trying to gather your wits enough to strike him down, while trying to imagine that he’s just another target and you have no ties to him.

(Whenever you try, you remember that night; the storm battering your window, the nightmare, his arms around you as he held you close to him and that’s not something that can be so easily forgotten, no matter what your duty is).

Shay takes a step forward, and another and another, until he’s reaching out to touch you.

“Don’t,” you whisper but there’s no bite to it, none of the anger that’s been bubbling inside you for days.

His fingers ghost over your skin and he’s so close, _so close_ that you could end it all now, right now, and return to the assassin’s with good news and brothers and sisters who would remain safe - mentors who would remain safe.

But his expression is as soft as his touch and you can’t bring yourself to make the killing blow, not when he’s leaning in so close that you can feel his breath warm on your cheek.

“I missed ya,” he breathes, so softly, and for a second it’s like everything is the way it was. “So much.”

You let your mind wander; to returning from missions to warm hugs and kisses on the cheek, and your voice is still a whisper as you say, “I missed you too.”

He gathers you in his arms quickly, so quickly that you hardly realise what’s happened until it has, until he’s all you can smell when you inhale and you _have missed this_. No one has held you like this since you lost him, since you returned to find Shay was _gone_ and Liam wouldn’t talk about it and everyone was giving you a wide berth. What else were you supposed to do but throw yourself into work?

It would be so easy to finish the job, to utilise his mistake – _never let your guard down_ and the voice you hear in your head is unmistakably Hope, there’s no doubt – to stab him and leave him to bleed out on this rooftop and pretend it wouldn’t affect you as much as you know it would.

Instead you draw your arms up and return the embrace as tightly as you dare, grasping the black leather in your fingers and burying your face in his neck. It’s been months and you’ve needed this and he’s kissing your forehead, your temple, your cheeks, your shoulder, everywhere he can without releasing you yet.

And you’re exposed on this rooftop, open to the eyes of your brother and sister assassins. It’s a terrifying thought that forces you back to reality, that forces you to step away from Shay and force him to look at you.

“We have to move,” you urge. “We can’t stay here.”

His expression turns serious and when he turns his head you catch sight of the length of fabric around his neck. He takes your hand before you can ask, leading you away from the rooftop.

“The _Morrigan_ isn’t far,” he says , “we’ll be safe there.”

* * *

You think she hasn’t changed, the one constant from the life you and Shay had before, but when he leads you into the Captain’s Cabin, you see that there’s little truth to that statement.

Banners bearing the Templar cross hang where the symbol of the Brotherhood once did, and it somehow feels colder and darker than it did before and a shiver runs down your spine. Everything’s so different now and it’s all reflected in the dark curtains and the red tapestries.

You swallow the lump in your throat and try to remain casual.

“You’ve redecorated,” you murmur and your hand brushes the table as you pass it. Shay hastens to remove the maps from its surface, to stow them away from your view even though you had hardly paid them any mind.

(Hope will have a field day if – _when_ because nothing slips past Hope, not a damn _thing_ – she finds out you had access to Templar maps and plans and did nothing to ensure you could pass on this knowledge).

“Ah, aye,” mutters Shay and you hear the slamming of drawers as he sets away the maps and notes. “Think they’ve overdone it personally.”

You hum. “It’s no worse than before, I suppose.”

Except it _is_ because it’s the Templar cross hanging across from you when it shouldn’t be and it’s _wrong_ , it’s _so wrong_.

You feel him behind you and it would be so easy to lean on him, so alike the old days when being close to him was so _natural_ and you were so sure that you never wanted it to change.

But it _had_ and everything’s different and you have a job to do, as much as you’re sure you can’t.

He doesn’t say anything, just standing close to you and breathing you in and the silence is suffocating in this dark room.

There are a thousand questions in your mind, answers you need that no one would give, and Shay’s never lied to you, you can trust him to answer, you’re sure of it.

(But then you’d been sure that he’d never abandon you and that had happened anyway).

“What happened in Lisbon?” you whisper, the first of many questions and the first step on this path should not be walking, this path that you have no doubt might lead you further and further away from the assassins and closer to Shay.

But really, there’s nowhere else you’d rather be, even if you’re angry at him and angry at Hope. You used to think your home was the Assassin Brotherhood, with your brothers and sisters and Shay, but then Shay was gone and you were alone, more alone than you felt you had ever been and you didn’t understand why.

The mentors have been hiding things from you, this you’re sure, but your belief of this statement hinges on what Shay might tell you.

Shay’s breath hitches and you don’t turn around to watch him stalk around the cabin. He doesn’t speak and you don’t want his silence, not like this, you want _answers_ , you want a clear path at your feet, not the murky waters you’re following with the Assassin Brotherhood.

You turn around desperately, watching him pleadingly and the words spill from your lips in a similar way, “No one would tell me.” A pause. “I _need_ to know. The Mentors wouldn’t try to hide something like this if there wasn’t good reason.”

“Oh, aye,” snarls Shay, and you flinch at his bitter tone, “there’s a good _reason_.”

He storms around the cabin, removing his weapons from his person with little of the care you think he should be showing them. They’re thrown haphazardly around the room and you can hear Hope in the back of your head, gleefully saying, _he’s letting his guard down, strike now_!

He removes his hidden blade last, tosses it onto the table that stands between the two of you and slams his hands onto the wood. Years of training force you to remain calm and you don’t flinch, not the same way you had from his words.

“Achilles had me slaughter innocents,” he tells you and the rage you hear in his voice almost has you circling the table to take his hand, to comfort him somehow. But his words are confusing; you can’t imagine your mentor ordering such a thing, not without feeling _some_ kind of guilt over it.

But then, since the death of his wife and son, Achilles has been different, changed in the only way losing everything you hold dear can change a person. He’s more focussed than ever on locating the Pieces of Eden and eliminating the Templars who stand in the Brotherhood’s way.

Perhaps it’s not too foolish to believe that your mentor has lost sight of what’s really important.

But still, he’s your _mentor_ and you feel as though you have to defend him somehow. The words that come out of your mouth don’t sound like your own and you’re beginning to realise how much influence Hope has on you – and how much you find you dislike it.

“I’m sure Achilles didn’t mean for –“

“Don’t,” Shay snaps, and he raises his head to pin you with an angry stare. “Do not finish that sentence. Achilles will not see reason –“

“So you feel that’s a good enough reason to _slaughter_ those you once called brother and sister?” Your voice has risen to match his and before he can interrupt you, you add, “Don’t deny it, Shay, it’s what you’ve been doing!”

“Achilles has given me no choice -!”

“Do not blame Achilles for the decisions you’re making, Shay!”

“The Assassins would blindly disturb these Pieces of Eden with no thought to the innocent lives they put at risk –“

“And you think the Templars will be different?”

“The Templars _are_ different!”

The two of you are breathing heavily, glowering at one another, neither of you willing to back down. You have nothing to say that can change his mind, you see that now, but that doesn’t mean you’re willing to back down without a fight.

Neither is he, it seems.

“These Pieces of Eden the assassins seek,” he pauses and takes a deep breath, “they are _not_ to be trifled with.” A derisive scoff and a scathing retort are cut off by Shay simply saying your name, a small pleading sound that freezes your voice in your throat and forces you to _listen_ to him. “These temples hold the very Earth itself together, you _must_ understand that. Disturbing them has disastrous consequences.”

He sounds so much older and wiser than you remember, nothing like the brash young man you knew all that time ago. It forces you to take a step back, to realise this isn’t the words of a lost young man that you’re listening to but the words of a wise man who _knows_ what he speaks of.

The words that leave your lips are a whisper of realisation. “Lisbon. Haiti.”

It makes sense now; the earthquake that had destroyed the lives of thousands, the Brotherhood’s determination to smother the news and hide the truth from you. Shay had told you he was going to Lisbon but now why, sworn to secrecy by the mentors, but now it’s not hard to connect the dots. They sent Shay to one of these temples in Lisbon whereupon he disturbed the Piece there and destroyed lives – _slaughtered innocents_.

You don’t understand the decisions that led him here and you certainly _don’t_ understand his willingness to kill those he once allied with, but you _can_ understand the reasoning behind it all.

Shay’s nod is solemn. “Now you see,” he says.

And you do; Achilles is willing to risk innocent lives just for a step up on the Templars, just for a chance to win this _stupid war_.

You swallow and drop your gaze from Shay’s, unable to hold his searching eyes any longer; you think he’s searching your face for understanding, for sympathy, for _something_ other than the pain that’s ripping you apart.

The Brotherhood is turning into something you don’t understand anymore; no longer a sanctuary, no longer your family, but a force uncaring of those it hurts.

“Leave them,” Shay says, like it’s so simple, like it’s really just as easy as packing up your things and walking away. “Leave them and come with me, join the Templars.”

He’s so utterly ridiculous that you’re scoffing and turning away, casting your eyes to the ceiling and praying for some deity up there to take you away. Your life may be falling apart around you but the last thing you’re willing to do is _join the Templars_.

“No,” you say, quietly at first, until you’re shaking your head and saying it over and over, meeting his eyes with fury and fire and daring him to say it again. “No. No. No.”

“The assassins are meddling with things they don’t understand,” Shay insists, and he’s rounding the table to you, reaching out for you even as you step away from him. “Their ambition is going to get you killed.”

“Why do you care?” you snap and you smack his hand away from your elbow. “Just one more assassin you don’t have to worry about, right?”

“Don’t say that. Don’t you ever say that.”

“Why not? It’s true, isn’t it?”

You’re baiting him, the fire and fury from your eyes travelling to your words, to your actions, to the hidden blade that’s popping out from your gauntlet. How easy it would be, to fulfil your duty to the Brotherhood and strike down this defenceless _Templar_ standing before you, how easy it would be to look in his wide and surprised eyes while you did so.

Except it wouldn’t be easy, not at all; you’d be cutting down a dear friend, a more than friend, and you can’t, damn the situation.

The blade retracts and you can see the relief on Shay’s face, almost as though he doubted you would spare, as though he could see your own doubts painted across your face clear as day. This is your chance, it has been your chance since he came to stand before you, and Hope would demand it, she’s trained you for this-

Your hidden blade lands with a resounding thud on the table beside Shay’s and can feel the relief over every inch of your body, the relaxing of tense muscles as your body slumps with the strain.

Shay catches you like he always has, holding you close. Words resound in your head, _keep it together, keep it together_ , until the words coming out of your mouth are just as crazy as Shay suggesting you _join the Templars_.

“Leave them,” you whisper. “Leave the Templars.” You don’t give him time to interrupt because the words are spilling from your mouth. “We’ll leave- no one has to know. No more Assassins and Templars, no more _war_ , no more-“

“I can’t,” Shay says, “I _can’t_.”

“Shay –“

“I have to finish this.” He says your name imploringly, taking your hands as he begs you to understand. “If I don’t, more people will die. _Innocent_ people. I can’t let that happen.”

Your anger starts to melt away, in a way so similar to before that you can’t help it. You reach up and cup his face, trying desperately to _want_ to stay, to _want_ to follow after him and join the Templars.

But it’s impossible; you’ve lost too much to the Templars, _too much_.

“Always so honourable,” you murmur softly, and then, harsher, distraughtly, blinking back hot and furious tears, “Choose, Shay.”

The confused and terrified expression that crosses his face is enough to nearly guilt you into taking your words back, enough to make you regret saying them at all.

“Choose,” he echoes, and there’s a broken quality to his beautiful voice that finally forces tears down your cheeks.

“Choose,” you agree. “Me or the Templars.”

“Don’t…”

But you have to. You need an answer, you need a way _out_ and you want that out to feature him, because _damn it_ but you love him and you think he loves you too. The forlorn expression across his face tells you all you need to know – you’re _right_.

His silence is damning.

You reach for your hidden blade next to his on the table, sliding it back up your arm and tightening the straps. You can’t kill him and you can’t go back to Hope with this failure under your belt. You need to leave, to _escape_ , and you need to do it soon.

He still hasn’t said a word.

He doesn’t say anything until you’re at the door, until you’re closing it behind you and cutting off his breathless exhalation of your name.


	10. Carry On [Shay Cormac]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“I kept playin’ it over in my head,” he admits softly. “Things I could’ve done differently. Things I should’ve done differently. Doesn’t change what I did.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> requested by theragegirl2015 on tumblr!
> 
> [...also, _so begins the onslaught of Shay one-shots_ ]

“I think that’s enough for today,” he says. There’s a worried frown on his face that’s out of place and infuriating.

You dip, snatching your sword from the stones beneath you. Three times he’s disarmed you with little effort, three times you would have been dead if this was a real battle.

“You’re going easy on me,” you accuse heatedly.

“’course I am! You’re exhausted – we’ve been at this since dawn.”

“And we’ll keep going until I’m satisfied.”

Shay sighs, shoulders drooping as he rubs a hand down his face. He’s as tired as you are, though has always been more experienced at hiding it, and he shakes his head.

“We’re done,” he tells you sternly, his Irish brogue rougher with the setting sun on his back. When you open your mouth to argue, he cuts over the top of you. “Starvin’ yourself and workin’ yourself to death is helpin’ no one but our enemies.”

“Shay –“

“We’re _done_.”

It’s your turn to sigh, shoulders slumping as your grip on your sword loosens. He doesn’t understand, you note dismally, as the door swings shut behind him and he leaves you alone in the courtyard. Water trickles from the fountain, the wind rustles through the rose bushes along the path, and gulls soar overhead, making for the beach and the sea. It’s not long until Shay sets sail again, not long until you’re on your own in Fort Arsenal with New York and her people under your protection.

 _I cannot fail again_ , you think, clenching your hands into fists, gripping tight to the pommel of your sword still dangling in your grip. You can’t count on one hand anymore all the people you’ve lost but you know exactly who it was you lost that started the nightmares.

 _Deirdre_.

You shake your head, walking slowly towards Fort Arsenal; on your own as you are now, your fatigue has made itself known. Shay had stopped for breakfast and lunch, had insisted you join him and frowned but relented when you’d steadfastly refused, but you’re so tired you can think of hardly anything but crawling into bed and tucking yourself into a tight ball under the covers. It’s been a while since you’ve had a restful sleep, been a while since you’ve been able to see anything other than Deirdre’s accusing and lifeless stare when you closer your eyes. She _trusted_ you to protect her, they all did, and Shay had left for Boston and the Assassins had struck you at your weakest.

 _That will not happen again_.

You can still feel her blood on your hands, regardless of how many nights you might spend scrubbing your palms with soap, regardless of how many nights you spend examining them for bloodstains. Shay can insist you’re not to blame but they’re just words, an empty comfort.

Shay sends his housekeeper to you three times; she’s agitated and stone-faced, repeating words you can hear him saying insistently in your mind. You’re tired and spiteful, steadfastly refusing his offers until he gives up and lets you sleep away your grief.

Though sleep does not come easily.

It is restless and fitful, full of vivid images in your dreams that haunt you like they have been for weeks. Deirdre, sprawled across the ground in front of you, pale lilac gown shredded, her tanned skin splattered with blood. Assassins standing over her, weapons drawn and dripping her blood, pooled at their feet and spreading slowly towards you where you stand, fists banging against an invisible barrier that keeps you from them, that stops you from helping her.

She weakly raises a hand, whispers your name as she reaches for you. The Assassin at her back raises his weapon, brings in down in a wide arc – it’s all in slow motion; the barrier falls away and you run, feet pounding against the ground beneath you, screaming her name too late, _too late_ -

You’re gasping when you wake, tangled in your sheets and your skin clammy. Your scream has just died on your lips, your chest is heaving and your hands are clenched beside your thighs. There’s a chill in the room from the open window, breezing across your sweaty skin, and you lift a shaking hand to clear your hair from your eyes. Squeezing your eyes shut against the onslaught of tears you can feel, you try to catch your breath-

The door is thrown open harshly, swung against the wall and back again, stopped only by Shay’s hand as he grips the wood. In his other hand is his sword, held aloft as he diligently scans your room for threats – he sees first the open window, charging towards it and peering out, stern-faced and terrifying; he believes someone entered from there, you think after a moment, calming enough to huff a slightly amused and shaky laugh.

“I’m fine,” you tell him, though your voice wobbles and your hands are still trembling. “Just a… nightmare.”

He steps away, shuts the window with his free hand. “Sounded bad,” he comments, facing you. His hair is loose from sleep, shaggy and lighter than you expect. For a moment, you wonder if he was also so stern as he is now, always so focussed. Was there a time where he didn’t wear his hair pulled out of his face? Was there a time when he’d run his hand through it when he was frazzled, stressed?

“No more than usual,” he tell him, crossing your legs beneath you. You twist the sheets in your hands, distracting yourself from the pounding of your heart and the way your hands still tremble. He sets his sword against the wall, watches it for a couple of seconds as it promises to fall, but is eventually satisfied enough to cross the room to your bed. He perches on the edge, stills your hands where they wring the sheet between them, and rubs his thumb over your knuckles.

Gently urged into honesty, you say, “They’ve been happening since…” You can’t finish, instead settling for shaking your head and swallowing, looking towards the window. The curtains are still open; it’s a cloudy night, swatches of grey over the dark blue, disguising the glittering stars from sight. The last clear night you remember had been the one before-

Shay clears his throat. “After Lisbon, I didn’t sleep for four days.”

 _Lisbon_. The name sucks the air from you; how silly your problems, your mistakes, seem in comparison. Hundreds of thousands of lives lost because Shay disturbed something better left untouched.

“I’m sorry,” you start, but he shakes his head.

“I kept playin’ it over in my head,” he admits softly. “Things I could’ve done differently. Things I should’ve done differently. Doesn’t change what I did.”

“You didn’t know.”

“Neither did you.”

Your breath catches in your throat. He puts it like that and your situations seem so familiar despite the gaping differences. Shay had no knowledge of the disaster that was to come, only doubts, only rumours and stories about the earthquake that rocked Haiti. You had no knowledge that an attack was imminent in New York, no doubts or worries – the information that could have saved Deirdre arrived from Boston too late for you to act.

“We lose people,” Shay tells you. He says it simply but with a weight to the words that would suffocate you if he wasn’t holding it too. “That’s the life we lead. Stoppin’ to grieve for every single life we’ve lost will help nobody.”

He shifts, rising to leave, freezing when you grasp his hand.

“Stay,” you whisper. Gathering your courage, you raise your pleading eyes to meet his, dark and concerned and gentler than you expect. “Please.”

He nods once, slowly, and eventually murmurs, “Of course.”

He slides into your bed with you, kicking off hastily put on boots. He’s warm, tugging you closer with an arm around your shoulders and letting you curl close to him. His heartbeat is steady under your ear; it’s easy to calm your own, racing heart with his calm next to you.

He tucks your head under his chin. “It gets easier,” he confides, his voice a low rumble in his chest. “The pain never goes, nor should it… but it gets easier.”

He gives you hope, you think dazedly and with a yawn. He’s living proof that a person can survive their grief, can survive being subjected to the very worst the world has to offer, and can come out of it stronger.

He sighs, his breath warm against your skin, his body relaxing as he drifts off to sleep. You follow suit shortly after, lulled to it by the steady, deep pattern of his breathing, safe in his arms.

Your sleep is undisturbed for the first time in a long while.


	11. Burn [Shay Cormac]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _The heat of the flames sears your skin. Your hand shakes as you hold the letter over the licking fire. You feel liberated when you drop it, when the edges curl and blacken, when his words burn and burn and leave nothing in their wake but ash._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> very long, very animated discussion with Kebeo about Hamilton and Burn that resulted in this. it then escalated into this monster of a fic that i loved every minute of writing. enjoy!

“You’re burnin’ the midnight oil again,” he muses, clambering in through your open window. He sets mucky boots down on your cream carpet, perches on your window sill in an action so familiar to you now. He crosses his legs at the ankles, folds his arms across his chest, and grins at your annoyed huff.

“I’ve lost my thought now,” you accuse lightly, rising from your chair. “You do this every time.”

“Not _every_ time,” he argues. “Only when it’s late and you won’t answer the door.”

“Try knocking on the door at a _respectable_ hour,” you tell him. “What’s Liam want now?”

He cocks his head. “How d’you know it’s Liam?” he quizzes, reaching into his coat for a single, thin letter. “Maybe it’s Aoife.”

“Where one goes the other isn’t far behind,” you agree with a laugh, “but if it was Aoife, she’d be here to give me the letter herself.”

“True.” He hands it over with little fuss, watches you closely as you pick open the seal and scan the messy scrawl. He’s silent until you throw it into the fire, until you’re watching the edges curl and blacken and burn. “What’s it say?”

Surprised, you ask, “He didn’t tell you?” He shakes his head. “Maybe you’re not involved.”

Affronted but hiding it behind a smile, he says, “Where Liam goes, I’m not far behind.”

“Like a lost dog.”

“Here now,” he laughs. “I thought we were friends!”

Your chuckles die away into seriousness. “He wants my help with a target tomorrow morning. I know the man quite well.”

Shay straightens, standing from the window, the beginnings of a grin appearing on his face. “Well, maybe I’ll have to tag along,” he muses, though behind his light tone is a gravity you don’t expect, “make sure nothin’ happens to _you_.”

He means nothing by it, you know, means only to protect you because of your importance to Aoife. Yet, despite that, your stomach flips and you turn away from him to hide the flush that heats your cheeks.

“Shouldn’t you be going?”

He lifts a hand to his heart, feigns pain. “You wound me to the quick, dear lady. Here was me thinkin’ we had a connection.”

Your lips quirk upwards. “How tragic.”

“And the hits keep comin’,” Shay gasps. He drops onto your bed, drapes himself on it like he owns it, and your amused scoff draws your thoughts away from the issue at hand. Rising to lean on an elbow, he gestures to you to join him, an encouraging smirk on his face that has you rolling your eyes. “Come, dear lady, I know how to soothe many an ache and pain.”

“I’m sure you do.” You shake your head, running a loose hand through your hair and brushing it out of your eyes. The work you’ve still to do mocks you, papers and open books spread across your desk in small bundles, spilled ink pots staining pages of now unusable parchment. You hear the rustling of his clothes, the clinking of heavy weapons as he crosses the room to you. Large hands brush over your shoulders as he stands at your back, squeezing and massaging, drawing a sigh from your lips.

“My hands can do more than this,” he bends to whisper in your ear, “and it’d be more enjoyable for both of us.”

“You’re cheating,” you scold, leaning against him. The weathered leather of his jacket is cool in the warmth of your room, his shirt and neck tie soft against your skin. You shake your head and start to rise. “We can’t. Liam will be expecting you.”

“He can wait,” Shay insists. He presses a chaste kiss upon your jaw, nibbles on your earlobe; his stubble is rough and delightful against your skin. “Lord knows I’ve waited on him plenty of times. Time for Liam to return the favour, don’t ya think?”

“I don’t think he’d agree,” you reply breathlessly. His hands are still massaging your shoulders, though now they begin to travel downwards, ghosting over your arms until they rest on your hips. He tugs you closer to him, pressed close to his large body and oh, so inviting. What you wouldn’t give to take him up on this offer, to ruin your professional relationship with him.

You shake your head and step out of his hold. “We can’t,” you say, turning to meet his eyes. “You should go.”

He sighs and shakes his head. His dark hair is almost black in the dimness of your room. “Alright,” he says. “I’ll pass along your message to Liam.”

You nod. “Thank you.” You follow him to the window, standing aside as he clambers effortlessly onto the roof. “I’ll see you in the morning.”

He inclines his head, leans back through the window to kiss your cheek. “As wounded by this encounter as I am,” he teases lightly, “I’ll make sure ya live to refuse my advances again.”

Heat flushes your cheeks and you slap his shoulder playfully. “Get out of here.”

You wait until he’s hopped from your roof and is strolling away down the path, drawing his hood before he passes the corner, and close your window.

* * *

Aoife is waiting with them, dark auburn hair braided over her shoulder and eyes just as bright. She takes your hands in hers, squeezes them gently.

“There’s still a chance for you to walk away from this,” she tells you softly. Over her shoulder, Liam’s watching the encounter sternly, frowning at your friend’s back.

“I can’t in good conscience,” you say, to her and to him, a reassurance to yourself that you’re making the right choice. Worries, fears, regrets, they’d all kept you awake; there’s still a chance to walk away, she says, like it’s so easy, like the people he’s had killed mean so little to her.

But then it _is_ easy for her to say, you reflect unkindly, because she walks hand in hand with death and delivers the blows from his scythe so quickly, _so easy_.

She nods once; the action reminds you of a death sentence. She stops by Liam’s shoulder as she walks away, drawing her hood over her hair.

“If she dies,” she says to him, her words dark, dark like her black coat, “I’ll kill you myself.”

There’s a flicker of something in Liam’s eyes – pride, admiration, _adoration_?

Shay, meanwhile, blinks, gaping after her.

“She’s not bein’ serious, is she?” he asks Liam, muttered under his breath when he thinks you’re not listening.

“’course she is,” answers Liam levelly. “So let’s not fail, eh? There’s no force on Earth that can protect us if she wants us dead.”

Howard Mills’ house is quiet and dirty; the garden is overgrown, the fountain ruined and riddled with bullet holes yet still, somehow, miraculously, tricking water, and the white stone path under your feet is mucky and uneven. You catch your foot on a loose stone as you reach the door and flush at your clumsiness; he might not be standing by your side now, instead one with the shadows, but you’re sure you can hear Shay’s huffed laugh.

He answers the door to you with hesitance, using his front door as a shield. His eyes are wild as he bids you enter, darting over the buildings, staring every person who dares walk past in the eye. He says your name disbelievingly, opens the door only a smidgen wider.

“Good morning,” you greet cheerily; you keep your voice light, your smile forced. You fear any slip will give away the reason for your presence here.

“Er, yes, yes,” he says. “I suppose it is.”

“May I come in?” You tuck your hair behind your ear, hoping you appear innocent. “I thought you might like some company.”

His eyes narrow as he squints at you but he relents; his hand wraps around your elbow, jerking you inside so quickly you stumble and almost lose your step. He locks it behind himself, trapping you inside with him until your business here is concluded; you just barely manage to hide the nervous twitching of your hand as the last bolt slides home.

 _Stay calm_ , you remind yourself. _There are other ways into this house. They wouldn’t leave me_.

Mills pockets his keys and strides past you, making for a room at the end of the lobby. You recognise it from years ago, from a time so long ago to you now; your father had taken you here, when you were no taller than his hip and only a girl with no understanding of the world around you. The house hasn’t changed; the portraits lining the wall still unnerve you, the wallpaper is still that same crimson and torn, and his desk is still too wide and too far from the window.

The curtains are drawn, the room dimly lit by candles; it’s stuffy and intimidating, more so when Mills slams the door shut behind him and locks it with trembling hands. He’s muttering to himself, _they’re coming, I’ve no time_ , over and over again.

You fan yourself, start innocently, “How are you, sir?”

“Well.”

Awkwardly, you sit in the chair opposite his desk. As subtly as possible, you listen out for Liam and Shay, for splintering wood or smashing glass. No such sound immediately offers itself.

“Shall we open a window?” you ask politely, starting to rise to perform that very action. “It’s quite stuffy in here.”

“No.”

You swallow your nerves, hoping to cover your fear with offence. “Why not? You seem content to lock me in here with you like some kind of animal. We cannot open a window for my comfort?”

“No.” He idles near his bookshelf, casting nervous glances to the window in question. He wets his lips, adjusts a book distractedly. “Why have you called upon me? Today, of all days?”

 _What’s so special about today_? “Why have you locked me in your study?” You take a breath and rise from your chair; spread along his desk are notes, dozens of pages, and open books and naval maps. His elegant cursive marks a number of locations you’ve no time to examine; his letter opener lays inconspicuously beside Britain. “You were friends with my father, sir, he wouldn’t like the recluse you’ve become.”

“Recluse,” the man repeats. He turns, slams a hand angrily against the bookcase. You reach for the letter opener, slipping it between your skirts and hiding it there. “ _Recluse_ I am not, miss, my _life_ is threatened.”

You ask the question despite already knowing the answer, despite being here to help with the very task, “By who?”

He shakes his head, mutters under his breath again. “I’m out of time.” When he looks at you again, he’s the same man who gave you biscuits while he and your father squabbled and quarrelled and laughed and joked and celebrated. “I’m sorry.” He takes a deep breath. “There is so much I should have told you.”

“About what?” Curiosity shadows your nerves now. “Mr Mills?”

“Your father would have wanted you to know –“

You hear shattered glass. Mills freezes.

“They are here for me,” he breathes, “I’ve known for a long time now.”

“Wait,” you insist, reaching for him. “ _Please_ –“

“Do not trust them,” he tells you. There’s a wildness returned to him, a manic desperation as he grips your arm hard enough to bruise. “They would throw you to the wolves sooner than help you.”

 _Not Aoife_ , you think instantly, _not Shay. They wouldn’t_.

“Remember,” he says. Then, as you catch the glinting reflection in the silver of a knife, “I’m sorry.”

He hooks his arm around your throat, pulls you close to his chest. You lift one hand to his arm, gasping your shock, and Shay’s name leaves your lips before you can think twice. Mills mutters it again, “ _I’m out of time_ ,” and you raise the letter opener, jabbing it wildly behind you until it connects.

Shay shouts your name from the other side of the door. Mills nods in acceptance, the action frightening and awful; he’d known, you realise, watching him grasp the smooth handle of the letter opener and wrench it from his side. You wince, lifting a hand to your mouth – a gunshot from the other side of the door and the locks splinters. Liam forces his way in seconds later.

Shay finds you, clutching the desk in a white-knuckled grip and staring horrified at Mills, and makes for you as Liam stalks forward.

“So this is how it ends,” Mills says. He drops his pistol to the floor; you watch it land dully as the man stumbles back a step. His eyes are glassy as he looks at you. “Remember what I said, girl.”

He lifts the letter opener and jerks it across his throat.

Shay grips your shoulders, turns you bodily towards him as the blood beings to pour.

“That’s not somethin’ you’ll want to see,” he murmurs, one hand on the back of your head, long fingers tangled in your hair. He guides you from the room and sweeps you off your feet as soon as you reach the lobby; his hood is drawn like Liam’s had been, his lips set in the same hard line.

He sets you on your feet in front of a window, his lips quirk in a grin. “Nice to know my name is the first one you shout when you need help.”

“Stuff it, you.”

* * *

Shay clambers through your window against two days later, sneakily peering inside first.

“She still here?”

You shake your head, not bothering to rise from your armchair. The fire blazes in the hearth, heating the room but doing nothing to comfort your frazzled and stressed mind. He slips inside, closes the window behind him as he sighs in relief. Aoife has barely left your home since Mills’ suicide; she’s raged and complained and worried and drunk your father’s liquor to near emptiness and still has found no peace.

“Thank God,” Shay says. “I’ve been on that roof for hours.” He crosses the room to you, crouches and takes your hands in his. You’ve no thought other than how nice it feels, how comforting it is; for all Aoife’s attentions, she hadn’t just _hugged_ you, hadn’t comforted you in anyway but to express how angry you feel at the questions Mills has left you with.

“You should rest,” he suggests eventually, lifting one hand to cup your jaw. You’re exhausted but haunted; the jerking motion of his hand as he drew that knife over his throat, the _blood_. Shay’s thumb caresses your cheek, gently grounding you from those thoughts. “I know how you like to burn the midnight oil but…”

It’s draws a quiet, breathy laugh from you. “You’ve never complained about it before.”

He stands, still holding your hand, and encourages you to follow him to the bed. He sits on the edge, pats the covers encouragingly, and grins in triumph when you at last sit.

“Careful,” you tease, “if Aoife finds out you’ve been near my bed, she’ll have a fit.”

“Oh, the horror,” he replies, but there’s a titter of unease. “You won’t tell her, will ya?”

“Of course not.” You pause. “She just likes to ruin my fun.”

“Seems like she was the one havin’ all the fun, if you ask me.” He nudges your side with his elbow. “If anyone’s been needin’ a drink the past few days, it’s you.”

“Not really,” you murmur. “Father would turn in his grave.” You pause, swallow thickly. “I’m glad you were there.”

“I am too.” He’s serious until he’s not. “I reckon the whole mission would’ve fallen apart without me.”

“So modest,” you quip. “Whatever would we have done?”

He shrugs, the action joking while arrogant. “We’ll never know, will we?” You feel the change in him before he moves, before he’s squeezing your hand and trying to catch your eye. “We’re leavin’ tomorrow of the Homestead,” he confides. It’s not a surprise to you, Aoife had mentioned it a number of times on her drunken tirade, but somehow it still feels like you’ve been sucker punched.

“Oh,” is all you can manage to say. You’ve grown so used to his company, so used to them all, that their leaving is harder than you anticipated.

“It’s not all doom an’ gloom,” he jibes. “We’ll see each other again.” He nudges you gently with his elbow. “Didn’t think you’d miss my unwanted company that much anyway.”

You playfully narrow your eyes. “At least I’ll actually get some work done.”

He presses a gentle kiss against your cheek, shy and considerate and not at all what you expect. A flush rises up your neck, and your mouth dries as you struggle to find a response, but he’s rising again and making to leave. He adjusts his coat and belts, checks his weapons, as you swallow and fight the heavy feeling settling in your chest and stomach.

“Look after yourself,” he says, pausing at the window, straddling the sill in the middle of the action of leaving your life for who knows how long.

“You too,” you hear yourself say, lost and confused as he spins and begins to climb. You cross the room hurriedly. “Shay-! _Christ_!”

He bashfully rubs the back of his head, embarrassed, you think, at the haste with which he’d ducked right back into your room. He leans on the sill, his body half-in, half-out, and before you can change your mind you lean forward, kissing him softly, shyly, and _hoping_.

“Look after yourself,” you repeat, searching his eyes longingly, caringly.

He presses forward, a hand curling around the back of your neck as he steals your breath from you. “Well if I’d known that was comin’,” he breathes against you, “I’d go away more often.”

“Who says there’s more where that came from?” you tease gently against his parted lips.

“Another wound from you to add to my collection.”

You shove gently at his shoulders. “You should leave,” you suggest because if he climbs back into this room with you, you’ll never let him go.

“Aye,” he says, “though Lord knows how I’ll survive just thinkin’ of this.”

“I’m sure you’ll manage.”

There’s a fleeting smile that crosses his lips, a rueful look that flits over his eyes, before he’s clambering onto the roof and is gone.

* * *

Aoife leaves in the morning, looking worse for wear but no less alert, but returns to New York two weeks later, disgruntled and carrying a letter for you.

“If this is what I think it is,” she threatens, waving the folded and slightly crumpled parchment in front of you, “I will march back there, so _help me_ , and I will kill him myself.”

Quite smartly, you tell her you don’t know what she’s talking about, and squirrel the strange letter to your room. The rest of your day passes slowly, unbearably so because your mind is on the letter set atop your desk, and Aoife makes a point of watching you suspiciously, squinting at you as she backs out the door.

“Remember what I said,” she grits out, pointing at you as she closes the door behind her. You wait until she’s drawn her hood and turned the corner at the bottom of the path before bolting to the stairs.

You cut your finger in your haste to open it, finding only three words in the centre of the parchment.

 _I miss you_.

You knock over the ink pot reaching for a quill.

* * *

The letters become frequent; your responses become long, long enough that breaks are needed and it takes days for you to respond to one. Shay hardly gives you enough time to reply to his letter before another has arrived, with more questions and more suggestions. He writes of his boredom and his responsibilities, of Liam and the other Mentors, of Aoife visiting the Homestead and her dark looks in his direction, of missing the bustle of the city and your small house in the middle of it all.

 _I never understood how you could remain so close to the noise, at the centre of it all,_ he writes, as you lounge in your armchair in front of your fireplace. You can imagine him sitting at a desk, scribbling away, spilling ink in his haste to capture every thought that crosses his mind. _But now I am away from it, from you, and the quiet of the forest that surrounds us is dreadfully dull_.

Your heart flutters. It’s dull being away from you, what a thought, what a _compliment_. Your reply to this is poised and proper, despite the way your heart pounds and your hands shake as you write.

 _Being so close to the ‘noise’ provides sensitive information useful to those who might see it necessary to employ me_ , you say, _not to mention the gossip._ You can imagine the smirk he’d wear reading your reply. Braver without him in front of you, you tack onto the end, _Though there’s no conversation nor gossip here that can replace yours._

You wonder if he considers every word carefully before he writes, like you do. You wonder if he drafts and redrafts and destroys the letters with words you’ve written that make your cheeks burn. You wonder if he embarrasses himself like you do, if he decides it’s better to change your meaning than send something risky, that it’s better to never send the words because it could change _everything_.

And then there are the letters you keep because you can’t bear to destroy them; words written in the dead of night by the warm and soft fire. You stow them away in the back of your drawer, a separate pile from the other bundle you keep; every letter from Shay, in a small pile and tied together with a length of pale blue ribbon. You draw them out on the quiet nights, after you’ve sent your letters in the morning and are waiting for his response, reading them by the dimming light of the fire, aching for his touch, forgetting the sound of his voice.

The years drag on, letters continue to fly between you, and distance makes your heart grow fonder. His letters become infrequent and shorter, his duties to the Brotherhood leaving him little time to continue your correspondence, and the loss of his words feels as agonising as a dagger to the heart. You keep writing nonetheless, sending a letter a week and never expecting a reply; you write more and more often, the pile in the back of your drawer grows bigger and bigger and _oh_ , how you wish for just _one_ letter from him, something to say he’s okay.

“You’re moping.” Aoife stands in the doorway, arms across her chest. You sit up straighter, turning your eyes away from the window and the bustling streets outside.

“I’m fine,” is your distant reply, rising from the chair.

Aoife hums doubtfully. “I’m sure you are.”

 _I hardly remember the sound of your voice_ , you write that evening, after Aoife’s taken off for Hope’s manor with a promise to see you in the morning before she sets off for the Homestead. Fog has fallen over the city; she’s a spectre of woman when she leaves, effortlessly disappearing amongst the thick grey. The fire in the hearth is dying out; your room is colder than it feels. _It’s been too long._

His last letter arrives the morning before you’re summoned to Hope’s manor, shorter than the rest and written in a scrawl that’s near illegible; excitement or apprehension, you can hardly tell, but he writes that he’s sailing to Lisbon on a secret mission entrusted to him by the Mentors. He gushes that he’s thrilled with their trust in him despite his shortcomings and that he’ll come to see you himself as soon as he returns, that he’ll sail his Morrigan to you and escort you to her deck himself.

Your reply is enthusiastic despite your knowledge that he may not read it for months.

Your reply is enthusiastic even though he will never read it.

* * *

Your delight is dashed to pieces six months later.

Aoife is troubled when you answer the door to her, fiddling fingers never stilling as you close the door and lead her to the lounge. The fire blazes hotly, filling the air with snaps and clicks, and she slumps into the sofa the farthest away.  She’s nervous and quiet when she lowers her hood, revealing to you bloodshot eyes surrounded by dark circles. She declines tea, bids you sit by her, and tears your world apart.

* * *

You hear the talk of Lisbon’s earthquake around the city after that, whispers you’d dismissed before as idle gossip that you now know as the truth.

“He didn’t make it out,” Aoife had told you, her slender hands clutching to yours, squeezing reassuringly. “He did his duty to the Assassins well.” Something in her eyes shifted as she comforted you, a flicker of emotion quickly hidden when her eyes flitted down to your entwined hands. Waves of auburn hair fell limp around her face, betraying the fatigue she felt, and you wondered just how quickly she left the Homestead to reach you with this news.

Her answer was soft. “I left as soon as I heard,” she admitted. “I know how you… felt about him.”

Your breath had hitched as sobs begun anew; your feelings haven’t quite settled since then, in the weeks of loneliness and regret that have befallen your day to day life. Aoife stays close, leaving only to visit Hope in her mansion, and it reminds you of when the two of you were children; you and Aoife against the world.

“He was a good man,” she tells you a week later, though she seems to struggle to stay the words. “Perhaps a little lost but good.”

“He was,” you agree softly. _More than she knows_.

Your thoughts turn to the bundle of unsent letters hidden away in your desk drawer; words written but never read between the two of you. Could everything have changed if you’d just plucked up your courage and took that _chance_?

You dream about him, about earthquakes and your window, about struggling to unhook the latch and let him in before the world falls out under his feet. You wake feeling ridiculous but saddened and begin your day on a low note that only gets lower the longer you think about it.

Aoife keeps secrets from then on, writes letters and sends them by pigeon, whispers to herself with her brows pinched in through. She’s distracted more often now, her head buried in the books of your father’s study, hunched on the floor near the fire as she reads and reads and you write and write. Your father used to keep a journal, a journal full of secrets like the ones Aoife seems intent on keeping, a journal you’d gifted to Aoife and Liam once they’d discovered its contents.

Your journal is less important, instead a leather-bound book with blank pages that you scribble your thoughts in. The words are the tears you refuse to shed; they are your healing, your recovery. They are the constant companion at your side on rainy days, foggy mornings, starless nights when Aoife isn’t present and Shay is dead and you’ve no one there to listen to you.

“This would make a beautiful dress,” Aoife encourages one day, holding in her hands a swatch of mint fabric. She’s gently reassuring you, the same way she has been for months, but there’s an alertness to her that’s odd while unsurprising. “I know a great tailor who’d like a change from the jackets and breeches she makes for me.”

“I’ll think about it,” you mutter. The basket on your arm is empty but you ache with the weight regardless.

Aoife hooks your arms together as you stroll through the bustling marketplace. She buys you a scarf and wraps it around your throat, bopping your bright red nose and chilled cheeks. She’s not wearing her hood and her hair is loose around her shoulders; _like old times_ , she’d told you when you left the house, _before I was worrying about being stabbed in the back every day_.

“Liam’s been asking for you,” she starts cautiously, as your fingers brush over a selection of produce. “He wants to know how you are.”

“I’m fine,” you say. At Aoife’s expectant stare, you amend, “Surviving.”

She nods. “You should join us at the Homestead,” she starts. “The Mentor wouldn’t mind.”

 _But now I am away from it, from you, and the quiet of the forest that surrounds us is dreadfully dull_.

You’d hate it, Shay has told you so in all his letters… You’re too fond of the noise and the city, of the gossip that provides aid to Aoife when she expects it the least. How often have your read over those very words, how smudged have they become with the frequency you’d run your fingers over them, your tears?

“I like the city,” you respond testily because if she’s trying to speed up your healing process this is not the way to help.

You adjust the scarf wrapped around your throat as Aoife glances at something over your shoulder; she’s frowning, suspicion, it seems, drawing her to take a step towards you and place a hand on your arm. A chill runs down your spine, the hairs on your body stand on end, and you’ve the feeling you’re being watched.

“Think on it,” Aoife continues. She plops a rosy red apple into your basket, but her eyes never meet your face. “Maybe you’ll like the change.”

 _The change, the dull_. _Ugh_.

“I will,” you say sweetly.

She starts to guide you away, her shoulders tense and her lips in a thin, tight line. You linger a few steps behind her, reaching for a few bits more, and shudder; it’s odd, the feeling, of a hand grazing over your back, shoulder to shoulder, of being alone when you glance behind you. Your stomach curdles and your heart races – you’re just not sleeping enough, you reason with yourself, your bottom lip trembling as the beginnings of a light, embarrassed chuckle rise in your throat.

Aoife calls your name, cocks her head at the vacant expression you wear. “Everything alright?”

“Fine,” you mutter, fiddling with the end of the scarf. “Fine.” You take a breath, steadying your hands and your nerves. “What about you? You seem distracted.”

She shakes her head, parrots your words with a cheeky smile. “I’m fine.”

“Are you sure?”

She shrugs one shoulder, softly sighs your name. “I couldn’t tell you even if I wanted.”

“I know.”

She smiles, though it seems strained. “I’m just worried about you, that’s all.”

“I’m –“

“Fine, yes. I know.” She hooks her arm with yours again, and when her smiles meets her eyes she seems younger. “Come on. Let me bore you with stories of the Homestead – I’ll convince you yet!”

There’s a splash of black in the corner of your eye, a looming presence that’s gone when you turn your head, and a letter hidden in your pocket found only after Aoife’s left for Hope’s mansion.

* * *

He knocks on the window pane three times, so quietly that it’s more of a tap, really, and crouches on the roof, waiting for permission. You’re frozen in your chair, regretting leaving the window open, regretting the stuffiness of your room that required you needing to open the window at _all_ – why was it so stuffy in here at all? You’re so _sure_ that the fire had died before you left…

He’s a dark and looming figure, hidden in shadows and silhouetted by moonlight, and your stomach churns as he reaches forward with one leather-clad hand, steadying himself on the white window sill.

Four seconds of silence – you count them by the pounding of your heart.

Then, “You’re burnin’ the midnight oil again.”

Getting to your feet is a struggle, remembering to breathe is a chore. He climbs into your room, dark leather and clunking weapons, _different_ , wearing cream and black and exuding danger. You stand to greet him regardless, though words fail you as he crosses your room and stands before you. He lets you touch him, lets you graze your fingers across the thick brown leather belts criss-crossing his chest, lets you reach and tug gently at the strip of fabric knotted around his neck; a mask?

He doesn’t hide his amusement, lifting a hand to cup your cheek. The leather glove is smooth as his thumb brushes over your skin.

“Remember to breathe,” he whispers and you wonder if he’s as hesitant as you are, wonder if he’s as nervous as you, as worried that the moment you say anything the spell will be broken and he’ll be gone again.

Your breaths are shallow and your voice lost. There’s a thick, pale pink scar stretching from his forehead and cutting through his right eyebrow. He’s lucky, you note, as your forefinger follows its trail; the strike missed his eye and instead the cut begins again just above his cheekbone, a straight scar that stops in the middle of his cheek. You know a story when you see one but his dark eyes promise no answers tonight.

Your eyes burn with tears. “Aoife said… she said…”

His voice is harder, her eyes sterner. “What did she say?”

“There was an earthquake,” you murmur, watery eyes studying every inch of him. He stands taller now, you think, confident and dangerous. “She said that… that you didn’t make it out.”

Relief is hidden behind a shrug – it’s _strange_ , you note, the edge that had crept into his voice, but you launch forward and wrap your arms around his neck. Your tears wet his throat as you clutch at the collar of his jacket, noting distractedly the absence of the hood known to be worn by Assassins. You breathe him in; leather and gunpowder and smoke, traces of soot on his jaw, but none of it matters as he holds you close. You hear him inhale deeply, breathing you in like you do him, feel his large hands on your back and his fingers curling into your dress. There’s no roughness, no scratchiness of his beard against your skin; he’s clean shaven now and his shaggy and unkempt hair is slicked away from his face and tied off at his neck.

 _Different_ , you repeat to yourself and you can’t quite tell if it’s good or bad.

“I missed you,” you whisper against his throat, eyes squeezed shut, hands clenched around his cold collar. You’re convinced he’ll disappear if you open your eyes, if you let him go. “There’s so much I should have said-“

“No time for regrets,” he says. There’s a sadness to his voice, a pain hidden in its depths. “Say it now.”

The words stick in your throat. Shay’s lips twitch as he fights a smile.

“Aw now,” he muses, tucking hair behind your ear. “You weren’t quite so shy in any of your letters.”

Distance was your ally then. Time was your ally then; he thinks you weren’t shy, you reflect, but he doesn’t know about the letters hidden away in your drawer, or the journal in the bedside table. Every thought, every regret, written and never said.

“Look at me,” he murmurs. It’s a struggle, but his finger and thumb under your chin are gentle foes, encouraging you to look up. “There we go.”

“I love you.” It’s liberating to say them aloud, even if they’re said in a bare whisper, breathed against his lips that seem so much closer to your now.

He kisses your forehead, brushes his lips over your left eyebrow as he bends to press a kiss to your cheek. He tilts you face back further, pressing his lips to your jaw, to your throat, before rising again, his breath warm against your lips.

You’ve spent five years, almost six, waiting for him.

No longer.

You surge forward, pressing your lips to his, your arms around his neck as you pull yourself closer. You’re breathing him in, losing yourself in him, reminding yourself of how it felt years ago to watch him leave without truly knowing just how he’d affect you. He doesn’t push you away, but rather sighs softly in the breaths between desperate kisses, hands gently stroking up your sides and back until they wind in your hair. He takes control, wielding experience you’d never expected him to have; he wrenches away to clear your desk, grins at the aghast expression that crosses your face at the sight of your inkwells smashed and staining the floor.

“Shay –“

He silences complaints with his lips, lifts you onto your desk and lays you down. He’s right on top of you, as desperate as you seem to be, strands of dark hair falling free from the tie and tickling your face. He pulls away, trailing kisses along your jaw, your throat, your collarbone; he peppers them between your breasts, down your navel, until your stomach is churning and there is no doubt of his intentions in coming here.

He pauses, breathless, and rises enough for you to be able to meet his eyes with little discomfort. You’re panting softly, as excited and apprehensive as he appears to be, and when he reaches for your hand, you squeeze it gently.

“You sure?”

“Absolutely.”

* * *

“If I asked you to move in with me,” Shay whispers later, his arms curled tight around you and your head laying on his chest, “would you do it?”

Your finger traces invisible patterns on his skin. “That would imply me knowing where you live.”

“Fort Arsenal,” he answers. “By the water.”

You pull back slightly, leaning on your elbow to get a good look at him. The light in the room is dimmer now than before, the fire in the hearth now a glow of embers instead, the candles almost burnt out. He’s watching you seriously, patiently, his hand rubbing circles on your back.

“I know where Fort Arsenal is.” The old mansion by the waterfront, you think, but why would Shay be staying there rather than with Hope and the others?

“The Morrigan is docked there,” he tells you, his hand following your spine to your shoulders, his fingers dancing along them. “I seem to recall promising that I’d take ya to meet her.”

“Another woman in your life, Captain Cormac?” you tease. “Should I be worried?”

He grins. “As lovely as she is,” he says, leaning forward and kissing you softly, “she’s not quite so inviting as the one in my arms.”

You return to your invisible drawings, inevitably finding his many scars and tracing them. They range from no bigger than your thumb to larger than your arm, from white to pink, old to new. More curiously is the scar on his shoulder, a handbreadth from his heart; you’ve tended enough wounds to know a gunshot wound when you see one.

He stops your hand from dancing over it, circling his own around your wrist and gently guiding it away.

The question leaves your lips anyway. “What happened?”

He looks sad. “It doesn’t matter.” He won’t meet your eyes, relaxing against the pillows at his back, his hand stilling against your skin.

“Of course it does,” you utter softly.

“Leave it alone.” He doesn’t mean to snap, you think, because the regret is instantaneous. He sighs, shakes his head. “Maybe someday I’ll tell ya.”

There was a time when he would have written it to you, you think, a time where the secrets between you were few and far between. He’s receded into himself now, carrying the weight of his secrets alone.

You hope they don’t suffocate him.

“And what would I do in Fort Arsenal?”

The question lightens him, brings a smile, small but a smile nonetheless, to his lips. “Well, for one, you’d be there waitin’ for me when I get back.”

“Oh would I?”

The smile turns into a grin. “And you’d be there to kiss me goodbye.”

You lean forward and steal a kiss; nipping his bottom lip between your teeth as you pull away, you revel in the hitching of his breath as he follows you for more. “I can do that here.”

There’s something more to this, you think, something he’s not telling you – you’re drawn back to earlier, to Aoife asking you about the Homestead, to her enthusiastic words and pushy insistence that you’d _love_ it there. You can’t help but make the connection between the two, can’t help but wonder if they’re working on this scheme together…

“Did Aoife put you up to this?” you ask.

Shay looks as though you’ve just doused him with cold water. “Why would she?”

“She was telling me about the Homestead earlier,” you answer softly. “Trying to convince me to leave behind my city.”

“Now there’s an opinion I can agree with,” he muses. “The _noise_ here, ugh.”

“Oh and Fort Arsenal isn’t noisy?” You rise, sitting up with your back to him, hackles raised and arms across your chest huffily. “I _like_ the noise.”

He’s laughing at you. “I _know_ you do.” He presses a kiss to your bare shoulder, the words he utters next wistful. “Lord help me, I _have_ missed it.”

It strikes you as odd that Aoife wouldn’t have mentioned Shay’s arrival in New York, nor the position he now has in Fort Arsenal. Arsenal is an Assassin stronghold, isn’t it? Do the Assassins now trust Shay enough to give him command of the gang there, of the district?

His voice retains his earlier melancholy. “It was always too quiet on the Homestead.”

“You were too used to the noise.” You say it proudly, laying your head on his chest again, feeling his rumbling chuckle against your ear.

“I was too used to you.” His hand travels from your hip to your spine, grazing, tracing, tempting. He presses a kiss to the crown of your head, squeezes you gently, closer to him. It draws a contented sigh from you, pulls your perplexed, troubling thoughts from your head and tosses them into the wind.

“Where is Aoife anyways?” he asks lightly, tracing circles on your hip again. “I’d expected to run in to her earlier.”

“She left for Hope’s mansion this afternoon,” you answer breezily. “She’s not due back for another couple of days.”

He rolls then, capturing your surprised giggle with his lips, trapping you between strong arms.

“Perfect,” he murmurs.

* * *

He tells you the others don’t know he’s here, that Achilles has him on a secret mission not even _Liam_ knows about, and he’d like to keep it that way. You don’t question him, nodding sagely, accepting the gentle, farewell kisses he gives you agreeably.

“Your secret is safe with me,” you whisper against his lips, your hands clenched in his lapels.

He always leaves early, some things never change, and the first streaks of daylight are colouring the sky orange when you add his latest letter to your pile. You’re happy again, happier than you have been in a long time, and if not for Aoife’s comings and goings, you’d have never even realised that something is amiss.

Aoife arrives and leaves stressed, shatters plates and tea cups and stands on the broken shards, slices her knuckles up when she punches a mirror. She glowers at her blood stains on the carpet, hisses in more than pain as you clean the wounds for her.

“Talk to me,” you finally murmur one night, when she’s come home smelling of lavender and smoke.

“We’re being hunted,” she admits, watching your fingers still on her hands. “I don’t know who he is or _why_ … but…” she sighs, low and tired, leans back until her waves of hair dangle over the back of the chair. “He struck the factory this afternoon, destroyed the gas reserves.”

Your brows pinch together in a frown. “What gas reserves?”

She shakes her head curtly. “Doesn’t matter now.” She rubs her eyes. “Le Chasseur is dead.”

You squeeze her hand in comfort, and pull her into a hug when she starts to cry. She empties the liquor cabinet again that night and leaves without a goodbye in the morning.

Shay stays when Aoife doesn’t, leaves the mornings she’s due to return with dreamlike kisses and promises whispered against your lips. Every time he climbs in your window, there’s something heavier in his eyes; regret, guilt? He doesn’t speak about it, begs you not to ask, and instead spends the night drawing impassioned moans from you.

He’s guilt and regret to Aoife’s pain and rage. Small victories to the Assassins seem worse to her, you find, because they never seem to last.

“We’re losing so many people,” she admits in a sober whisper one evening.

“Come to Fort Arsenal,” Shay begs one morning, “see me off?”

His home is large and lonely, the courtyard empty but beautiful. The trees are in full bloom, the rose bushes sprouting red and white and pink, and the fountain trickles gently as you ascend the stone stairs. You’re directed to the docks by a lovely gentleman who gushes Shay’s praises and insists that he’s never worked for a better Captain, a better _man_.

“Saved ma life, he did,” he finishes, pointing you towards a sleek sloop-o-war with red sails. “Owe that man every breath in ma body.”

Shay cries your name, waving you along the dock; he bats away eager hands that reach to help you along the gangplank, helping you on himself and offering an elbow. You take it proudly, grinning all the while.

He keeps a well-maintained and orderly ship, you note, as he shouts for someone named _Gist_ , a gentleman dressed in dark leathers and wearing a brimmed hat and a smile. He stands at the helm, waits for Shay and yourself to ascend the stairs to him, and claps his Captain on the shoulder.

“Ah,” he says, taking your hand after Shay introduces you. “The lovely lady who occupies our Captain’s evenings.”

Despite the flush rising from your neck to your cheeks, you manage to tease, “More like the lady who forces him to trek across the city for a kiss goodbye.”

“Oh, the horror!” cries Christopher Gist. “However do you _do_ it, Shay?”

“And that’s enough introductions,” says Shay. “Don’t you have somewhere to be, Mr Gist?”

Gist’s barks a boisterous laugh. “Aye, Captain, now I do!”

Shay’s arms are around your waist as soon as Gist has descended the stairs and engaged the crew in conversation. He sweeps you off your feet and into a spin, kisses you until your breathless, and grins against your lips as his crew cheer and whistle.

“Well now, Captain,” Gist shouts, laughing still, “if that was all you wanted, you just had to say!”

“Aye, Gist,” returns Shay, setting you gently on your feet, grinning cheerily at your embarrassment, “but I couldn’t run the risk of you thinkin’ that was an invitation!”

Gist laughs again and waves the Captain off.

“I’ve never met him before,” you muse conversationally. Your hands reach for the helm in front of you, following the engraved patterns in the wood. “Is he an Assassin too?”

Shay’s hands shadow yours. “In a sense,” he murmurs.

You narrow your eyes suspiciously, head tipped back to look at him. “You’ve gotten awfully secretive,” you tell him but your resolve shatters at the loving kiss he presses to your temple.

“I’ll tell ya someday,” he promises. “When all this is over.”

He’s gone sad again, retreating into his mind while his hands subconsciously follow yours. He entwines your fingers together, rests his chin on your shoulder while you experimentally close your fist around a spoke of the helm.

“So… do I get to steer your ship today?”

He laughs lightly. “Not right now.” That strange, pensive pause again, the one that’s become so prevalent in your conversations, the one that follows Shay’s sadness. “Maybe someday.”

“This ‘someday’ is shaping up to be quite exciting,” you quip. “I wish ‘someday’ was tomorrow.”

He’s loathe to leave you when Gist proclaims the Morrigan ready to sail, and proudly endures the jokes and taunts of his crew, the elbows that jab into his sides and the crooked grins. You promise to watch the Morrigan until she’s smaller than your thumb and return to a home that feels colder than Fort Arsenal seems.

* * *

When he comes back, he’s wearing black and red and he’s _angry_ ; it’s an anger you’ve seen Aoife wearing, hidden under layers of feigned calm and indifference. He insists that he’s fine despite the darkness that lingers around his shoulders, tells you he can’t talk about it – that it’s too dangerous to talk about it.

“I couldn’t put your life at risk like that,” he explains softly one night. He stills smells of the sea, the salt and wind clinging to his skin. “I couldn’t live with myself if anythin’ happened.”

He has nightmares that he won’t talk about, nightmares that wake him up in a cold sweat in the middle of the night. He reaches for a weapon and bolts upright, breathing heavily, gasping unintelligible threats, and gently reaching for his arm seems to startle him into recognition.

“’m sorry,” he always murmurs, kissing your forehead, bidding you return to a sleep that always more difficult to settle into after. “I don’t mean ta scare ya.”

You lace your fingers through his. “Maybe you should talk about it?”

He shakes his head, always, _always_. “It’s not somethin’ I like rememberin’.”

He admits a few weeks later that he dreams of fire and smoke, of being trapped outside a burning building while people scream for him inside. He confesses to your voice being the loudest of them all.

He confesses that he never reaches you on time.

“I promise that’ll never happen,” he murmurs, hugging you tighter, kissing you harder. “I’ll never let anythin’ happen to you, so long as I breathe.”

He leaves for the North Atlantic two weeks later, for war and vengeance and more nightmares. He laments the cold he’ll suffer, that you’ll not be there to warm his bed for him, and kisses you fervently when you promise to wait in Fort Arsenal every day until he returns.

“You won’t,” he murmurs knowingly, “but I know you’ll try.”

* * *

Aoife is distraught when you answer the door to her a month later, forcing her way inside and grasping your shoulders with shaking hands.

“Has he come here? Are you alright?” Her eyes dart frantically over your dazed expression, her hands clenching into fists in the fabric of your dress. She demands again, her countenance nothing short of wildly, “ _Is he here_?”

“No, _no_ ,” you gasp, frowning, shaking your head with the words. “Aoife, what-“

She’s shaking, close to tears, whispering names over and over – _Le Chasseur, Kesegowaase, Adéwalé_ – and seeming more of threat to herself than to anyone else. You reach for her shoulder with your own trembling hands, attempting to comfort but jerking back as she rises clumsily, striding to the stairs and throwing herself up them two at a time.

“ _Aoife_!”

You find her peering out your open window, white-knuckled hands on the window-sill, and startle at the sound of another voice downstairs – _Liam_. He thunders up the stairs, all the grace of a charging bull, and passes you on his way into the room, an arm around Aoife’s waist pulling her back from the window. In one smooth motion, he closes it behind him, the glass wavering in its frame.

“Aoife, enough,” he commands. His hood is lowered like hers, his worried but stern expression on full display. “ _Enough_.”

“He’s _been_ here,” Aoife says. She gestures sweepingly around the room; from your armchair to your unmade bed, from your cluttered desk to the window where they stand. “You and I _both_ know it.”

Liam sighs. “Aye, I know it.”

You’re clutching the door tightly; small curls of wood unravel from the frame as you clench your hands into fists, watching them, waiting, worrying. It makes your heart ache, seeing Liam comforting and reassuring, seeing Aoife trembling in his arms, her eyes watery; it makes you ache for Shay, makes you wish that whatever the trouble is he’d be here himself to reassure _you_.

Instead, you lean your weight heavily on the doorframe, relying on it to keep your upright as you shakily ask, “What’s going on?”

Three beats of silence before Liam looks at you, another three before he tries to speak. Six more before the words leave his lips that destroy _everything_.

You stumble back a step, and another, until your back hits the wall in the hall. You’re shaking your head, whispering ‘no’ over and over again, a lump rising and stuck in your throat as your stomach churns.

“I’m so sorry,” Aoife murmurs, disentangling herself from Liam’s arms to come to you.

“ _No_!” Your voice is a ragged and pained shout. Your skin is crawling; those hands, _Assassin-Killer_ , _Traitor_ , _his_ hands touched you, comforted you, _protected_ you. Your head is reeling, the breaths won’t come as you panic and struggle to inhale. “No, no, no, no, no…”

Aoife whispers your name, crouches in front of you while maintaining her distance; Liam looms overhead, wordless.

“He said…” you pause to inhale jaggedly, the sound laced with a sob you can’t contain. Liam stands to attention suddenly, appears to lean forward and listen with rapt attention. “He said… Achilles sent him here…” The tears flow freely with your sobs now, as you lean forward with your head in your hands, shaking. “I’m such a _fool_.”

Aoife says your name again and you finally allow her to touch and comfort. “No, I am,” she says ruefully. “I should have been honest with you from the start – about all of it.”

You wipe at your nose. “What d’you mean?”

“There was an earthquake in Lisbon, that much is true,” Liam says, “but Aoife wished to spare you the pain of the truth. That Shay betrayed us the night of his return.”

 _She lied to you. He lied to you._ Your head is spinning all over again. _Who can I trust_?

“He blamed the Mentor,” Aoife tells you, “was shouting and ranting about how Achilles _knew_ what would happen. He _stole_ from us…”

“Le Chevalier shot him in the back,” Liam says darkly, “we thought that was the end of it.”

“I knew you loved him, even then.” Aoife takes a breath. “I couldn’t bear the thought of telling you the truth.”

Your hands clench in your skirts. Shay had told you not to tell Aoife he was in New York – a secret mission from the Mentor, secret even from Liam and Hope. He always arrived late into the night, always when Aoife had left for Hope’s mansion, always left early before her return. You think then of his requests for you to join him in Fort Arsenal, the gentle insistence with the edge behind it, the persistence. You think of Aoife doing the same thing.

The worry in Shay’s eye whenever you brought up Aoife – _did she put you up to this? Why would she_? Not a worry like it used to be, that Aoife, your _friend_ , would have his balls in a vice for being near you but rather that she’d have her blade to his throat as a _traitor_.

You see red and black.

 _As a Templar_.

Aoife’s hand is gentle on your elbow. “Can you pack a bag?”

You nod lifelessly, pulling yourself to your feet. Aoife and Liam stand in the doorway wordlessly, her hand tucked into his elbow, his rubbing soothing circles over her knuckles.

_Aoife said… she said…_

_What did she say_?

 _We’re being hunted._ Your eyes trail over to Aoife, where she’s leaning her forehead against Liam’s shoulder, standing with her back to you. _We’re losing so many people_.

You wrench open your desk drawer before you leave, when Liam and Aoife have turned their back. Inside, where you’ve left them, tied off in their ribbon, you grab the piles of letters, the unsent and the received.

Liam takes your bag and Aoife curls an arm around your shoulders. Your home feels unbearably cold as the door shuts behind you.

* * *

Aoife stays until you settle into the safe house; a small cottage on the north side of the city, far away ( _farther away_ , part of you thinks amusedly, thinking of Shay and his fond complaints. It’s not easy to dismiss those thoughts when they come hand in hand with the way he looked at you when he was inside you, so gentle, so _protective_ ) from Fort Arsenal and the gangs and _all of it_.

She stops by as often as she’s able but not as often as she’d like, she admits, and in the loneliness of the months that drag by after, you have plenty of time to wonder why you didn’t fight them more. You’re distraught and _lost_ and puzzled and _hurt_. He _lied_ to you – was even his love a lie? Was he using you? How often did you offhandedly mention Aoife thinking Shay was already aware of her movements?

How often did your offhanded comments put her in Shay’s line of fire?

It’s quiet uptown, with none of the hustle and bustle you’re used to outside your door. You’re left largely to your own devices, left to write in your journal and read through old letters, left to cry yourself to sleep and _think_ and _worry_. You can’t wrap your head around any of it – Shay’s words, his actions…

It’s another month before you make a decision regarding it all. There’s a storm rolling in with evening winds, great expanses of grey clouds that unleash large, unrelenting drops of cold rain. They batter the windows as the wind howls and rattles the frame; your legs are tucked under you as you sit near the fire, bathing in the warm orange glow from the flames. They devour the logs, snaps and cracks filling the air as you hold tightly to bundles of letters and words you’ve read and re-read over and over again.

_Templar. Traitor. Hunter._

The creases of the folds are more prominent in the first of the letters, from the frequency of you reading them, of you opening it and folding it away once more. Three simple words that started it all, three simple words and your heart was in his hands – _I miss you_.

 _I miss you_ turned into _dreadfully dull without you_ and eventually into promises of sailing on the _Morrigan_ , into _not so lovely as the woman in my arms_. His words made your heart soar then, his touch raised goose bumps on your flesh, made heat coil inside you. He _knows_ you, this you don’t doubt…

… but do you know him anymore?

 _Templar_.

Black and red. The brooch bearing the cross. How blind you’ve been to have not made the connection before, how blindly you trusted and believed his words. Why would he ever lie to you, after all? You, who wrote to him, who _loved_ him, who never once suspected something was wrong when he climbed in your window and back into your life. _Mission from the Mentor_. _A secret. Not even Liam knows_. His secret was safe with you, it always was, because you’d never once suspected he would keep things from _you_.

_Traitor._

Your hands twist the letter, the length of parchment bearing only three words, as your mind wanders; your fingers tracing scars old and new, his hand firm around your wrist as you’d came near risen white flesh a handbreadth from his heart. _What happened? It doesn’t matter_. _Of course it does. Leave it alone_. His words had an edge, his eyes held a darkness – _Le Chevalier shot him in the back_ , Liam had said with no hint of remorse. _If it had been me, I wouldn’t have missed_. He betrayed them, everything they believed in, blamed the Mentor for a natural disaster that no one could have prevented.

 _Hunter_.

You toss the scrap of paper aside, watch it roll dangerously close to the grate of the hearth. It stops, turned orange in the glow, and your eyes turn to letters unsent; declarations of love from years ago, words unsaid between you. You want to believe that you could have prevented this from happening if you’d only said earlier – might he have come to you first? Might he have sought out your guidance before rushing headfirst in there and betraying all he stood for?

“He doesn’t deserve your sympathy,” Liam said, in the quiet moments. You’d arrived in Hope’s mansion, stayed there a week before Aoife spirited you away from danger, from Shay. “He knew what he was doing the moment he returned to the Homestead.”

Those words haunt you now, twist and churn your confusion into sorrowful rage.

 _He knew what he was doing_. The Shay you know, _knew_ , was honourable; he’d wrote to you of assassinating a man dying anyway, and how unsatisfied he’d felt by it, how grateful the man had been to have his suffering ended quickly. Shay had wrote that the Assassins treated it like a victory, celebrated it like a step forward. Shay had seen only a man who would have be their problem no longer within the month.

“He won’t stop until we’re all dead,” Liam continued softly. “Every last one of us.”

Aoife had idled in the doorway, a cup of tea in her hand that she withheld from you in favour of curiosity. Liam’s eyes had flitted over your shoulder to her but rather than follow his gaze yours had dropped to the table.

A game then, you think, a hunter, a _traitor_ , a _Templar_ , toying with your emotions and your life before ending it. A man changed by a bullet to the back from an ally, a man changed into something dark and monstrous. Shivers crawl up and down your spine, the same route his hand once took, gently caressing – how disgusted you are now.

And yet…

Your eyes burn with tears. There have been no shortage of opportunities for the man to take if he wanted you dead, nothing stopping him from slitting your throat, from making it quick and painless or slow and painful. He could have slid in that open window that first night and killed you where you sat. He could have waited until sleep had caught you, snuck in upon your unconscious, unsuspecting form and ended it there. He could have made you an example for Aoife, for the woman he avoided in his visits.

Your shoulders wrack as you sob with abandon. This feels to you as painful as learning he had died – and he has, you know now. The Shay you knew then _is_ dead, the Shay who wrote you these letters is _gone_. His life was taken by that earthquake that ought to have taken is life truly but instead had reached out with broken hands and ripped him apart, throwing back a monster and a hunter and a traitor and a _Templar_.

 _He’s not my Shay_ , you know now. _Not anymore_.

One last longing glance over the letters, over the memories, over the unsaid words and the words that made your heart skip a beat and butterflies choke your throat. One last savouring glance over his often illegible scrawl as he’d gotten excited, over words crossed out that he’d misspelled or misplaced or misunderstood. One last brush of your fingers over the ink, one last smudge of your tears on the yellowing parchment.

The heat of the flames sears your skin. Your hand shakes as you hold the letter over the licking fire. You feel liberated when you drop it, when the edges curl and blacken, when his words burn and burn and leave nothing in their wake but ash.

* * *

He kills Hope three months later. Le Chevalier follows a few weeks after that. Liam never returns from the Artic.

Aoife rarely leaves the safe house. When news reached her of Liam’s demise at the hands of the _Hunter_ – the word had been sneered with a curled lip and a glower – Aoife had receded into herself for days and drunk herself into a stupor. Stopping her from leaving the home and going after Shay in that state had been difficult.

But eventually you both realise the inevitability of their confrontation.

“I have to return to the Homestead,” she says over tea in the morning. There are dark circles around her eyes, her shoulders are slouched with fatigue and sorrow. “I need to see the Mentor.”

“Not so soon,” you insist. “There’s still time.”

She shakes her head, reaches across the table for your hand. Her smile doesn’t quite reach her eyes. “He’s still a good man,” she says softly, tiredly. “He’s just lost.”

It’s an echo of words said years ago, of nights spent with drink in her hand after she delivered the news of an earthquake and a death. It’s an echo of words she said only to make you feel better, words that held no feeling but rather a hidden sharpness you understand now.

“You weren’t saying that a few months ago,” you say quietly. Your tea is cold. You drink it anyway.

“A few months ago I thought we could still win.” She pauses. “We created him, this monster that he’s become. This is the _Assassin_ ’s fault.”

“It’s no one’s fault but his,” you argue softly though the words feel heavy. They feel like a lie. “No one told him to murder-“

“He believed there to be no other choice.”

There’s always a choice, you think bitterly. The choice Shay could have made in this case is _not_ to kill the people he once cared about, the people who trained him, who took him in and gave him a _family_ and a _cause_.

Aoife squeezes your hand, drawing your attention back to her. “I don’t want to leave you alone.”

She won’t meet your eyes. “You’re not going to. Right?”

She dips to hug you before she passes, her arms encircling your shoulders; rum clings to her clothes even still. You don’t want to let her go.

“I’ll see you after,” she says.

Your tears start afresh as soon as the door closes behind her.

* * *

Shay kills her two days later.

* * *

The nightmares start when you realise she’s never coming back.

You remember vividly holding Shay close as he shuddered and moaned, the feel of the cold sweat on his brow against the palm of your hand. You remember the jerk he awoke with, the startled gasp and wild-eyed look he wore as he looked you over. You remember the shaky sigh that escaped his lips when he realised he was dreaming, the surety and safety you’d felt when he whispered to you that he was fine, as he tugged you close to him and wrapped you in his arms.

There’s none of that with your dreams.

You wake screaming, darkly vivid images of the same man you once held and comforted and cared for coming after you with a sword in hand. He used to dream of fire, you recall, of those he cares about trapped inside a building while his efforts to save them remained fruitless.

You dream of him being in there with you, or flames licking the walls and preventing your escape while he stalks cruelly towards you and promises your demise at his hand.

Even worse, you imagine Aoife standing outside if you do succeed in escaping, a sneer on her lips hand in hand with an accusation before she’s grasping you by the hair and forcing you to meet Shay’s blood soaked blade.

Sleep does not come easily and it does not stay long.

In the first moments of waking you wish for him, for his strong arms grounding you and his deep voice soothing you. The longer you lie awake, you remember what he’s done and you regret wishing it at all.

He finds the safe house a week later. It’s late and you’re sleepless, lying on your side facing the window and _wishing_ for your head to clear. The floor doesn’t creak and neither does the door; he stands in the dark until you half-turn, feeling his eyes on your back, feeling your skin crawl the only way an intruder can.

“You’re burnin’ the midnight oil again.”

You struggle to pull in a breath. He’s here to kill you, you think, first Aoife and now you – no one left. You can’t read the expression on his face; blessedly, cursedly blank. Does he wish to hide his thoughts from you to save himself the pain of killing you? Is this his true face? Has he ever cared for you at all?

Instead, after a long, slow step into the room, the dimming embers of the fire glowing off his black coat, he tells you, “I’m sorry.”

“Get out.” You say it quietly at first, your gaze on the sheets tangled around your legs. He doesn’t move. You grasp a spare pillow in your fist, launching it haphazardly across the room. “ _Get out_!”

He easily avoids it, stepping languidly to the side and even having the gall to look amused by your choice of weapon. You start to untangle yourself from the sheets, reaching for another pillow, throwing it with both hands this time. He catches it in one, tosses it over a shoulder as he advances.

“ _Get – out_!”

He grabs the wrists of the hands that try to smack and punch his chest, straddles your waist as you struggle to free your legs and kick at him, and he’s patient, waiting, waiting, _waiting_. Your shouts turn into screams, raw and enraged, sorrowed and pained and _lost_ ; he bears it all grievingly, patiently, and waits until your screams have turned to hiccupping sobs before releasing you.

“Please listen to me,” he whispers. “ _Please_.”

“So you can feed me more _lies_?” You raise a hand to his chest, pushing insistently. He doesn’t budge. “So you can _use_ me some more?”

“Stop it,” he hisses. “It was never like that.”

“ _Wasn’t it_?” You twist your hips, thrashing once more. “You have needs to satisfy, don’t you? Suppose I shouldn’t be surprised you wanted to make use of my other talents before you decided my time had come!”

“What’re ya talking about?” He grabs your wrists in each hand, forces them onto the mattress by your head. He’s hovering over you, every bit the intimidating hunter you expected, but you cannot find the terror you should be feeling. You only see Shay, the Shay who wrote you letters and climbed in your window and begged you to live with him and spun you off your feet on the deck of the _Morrigan_.

 _Murderer_ , you remind yourself, _monster_ , _traitor. Templar. Hunter_. He’s not the same man, he never will be again. He walked into a city and came out of the rubble a different man.

“Why else would you be here?” You’re all but screaming at him, your chest heaving with exertion.

“Why else would I…?” He freezes, his grip on your wrists slackening. “You think I’m here to kill you?”

“ _Why else would you be here_?”

He looks truly devastated by yours words, as though you have reached into his chest and torn him apart. He looks as though you have left his chest open and walked away. _Good_. That’s what his lies have done to _you_.

_I promise that’ll never happen. I’ll never let anythin’ happen to you, so long as I breathe._

You blink to dispel rapidly rising tears. You’ll not show weakness to him, not to this monster, not now, not ever again. Lies, lies, lies from his lips, too many for you to count, spoken for so long you hardly know where the lie ends and the truth begins – is there any truth to him at all?

“Please just let me…”

“Do you feel powerful?” you cut in wrathfully. “Striking down your old allies, your old _friends_ , your-“ _Lover_. Were you a fool to believe you were anything more to him? Is this some kind of final test he has to pass to join the Templars?

You yank your wrist free of his slackened grip, the palm of your hand meeting his cheek in a loud smack that shakes him out of his shock-induced stupor. He grasps it once more, brings it down to your side, holds it there until you exhaust yourself once more.

“Talk to me,” he demands coldly, his will iron. “What did they tell you?”

“ _Enough_ ,” you hiss. “Aoife could tell you exactly what but you _killed her_.”

“I took no pleasure in taking their lives!”

“That doesn’t matter!”

“Of course it does! I never wanted any of this!”

A pause. The only sound in the room is your heavy breathing and his. Your tongue darts out to wet your lips. He follows the movement.

“You betrayed them,” you murmur, “betrayed _us_.” You inhale, deep and shakily, and say the insult that’s been plaguing your every thought of the man, “You’re a monster.”

He rears back as if your words have physically struck him. “You’re not an Assassin,” Shay says. “I never betrayed _you_.” He starts to rise, releasing your wrists and rolling onto the empty side of the bed. It’s so aggravatingly, lovingly familiar that you almost forget everything, almost forget his sins. He lies on his back, staring up at the ceiling, and the pain that flickers fleetingly across his features almost makes you want to take back your words. “I told you I’d never hurt you.”

“But you have.” You rise, setting your feet on the cold floor, your back to him. “Aoife is… the only family I have left.”

He rolls his head to the side and starts to sit up; he leans on an elbow, the action so familiar it _hurts_. He reclined like this on your bed, in your home, beckoned you to him more times than you can count now. “Did they tell you why I did this? Any of this?”

“I don’t care to know.”

“Don’t lie to me.” His hand hovers over your shoulder, wanting to touch, waiting for an invitation he no longer deserves. He repeats, his voice softer, more distressed, “I never wanted any of this.” A breath. “I followed Achilles’ orders in Lisbon. I did what he asked of me… and thousands of people died.”

His hand brushes your hair from your shoulder. You close your eyes, revelling in the gentleness, missing and aching for his touch.

He continues, softer than before, “The Assassins were messin’ with something they shouldn’t have been and Achilles wouldn’t see reason.”

“So you had to kill them _all_?”

“They followed Achilles blindly – I alone thought to question the Mentor’s orders, no one else. The burden of stoppin’ him, stoppin’ them all, fell to me alone.”

You finally look at him, half-turning on the edge of the mattress to look down at him where he lounges. He’s clearly distressed, his eyes closed and his hand twisting in your hair. You want to reach out and smooth the wrinkles that mar his brow, to soothe the worries that plague him. You want to curl into his side and seek his comfort, to provide your own in return.

You withdraw, standing from the bed and crossing the room to the window.

“So many people are dead by your hand, Shay.”

Dawn is fast approaching, the sky lightening from dark blue into hues of pink and orange.

“I know that.” His weapons clunk and shift as he sits up, searching your reflection in the glass earnestly. He adds, unhappily, “And many more still.” His footfalls are soft as he follows you, standing at your back; his hands hover inches from your skin before settling on your waist, waiting for a refusal. It doesn’t come; his head dips to rest on your shoulder. “I’m sorry.”

And you _try_ , you do, but it doesn’t take away from the ugly truth.

“I can’t forgive you.”

* * *

Confusion walks everywhere with you; it steals your angry thoughts and mangles them into sympathy for the devil, it draws tears from your eyes, tears for Aoife and Hope and _Liam_ , and brings memories of Shay. It brings memories of Shay before, young and scrappy and naïve, Shay who wanted to make a difference, Shay who was so _excited_ to make his mark. It brings memories of the Shay who returned, dark and _dangerous_ , an aura of mystery around him.

 _What a fool I’ve been_.

Quiet tears become a constant companion; making tea, preparing supper, reading in your armchair, readying yourself for bed. You wrap a throw around your shoulders and settle on your armchair, the window closed and locked, the fire now an uneven glow of embers that provides little warmth.

You haven’t seen him since he escorted you home, leaving your bag in the hall and begging you to look after yourself.

You see evidence of him everywhere you look. Renovated buildings in the city, supplies and money from an anonymous donor who can _only_ be him; repentance, you wonder, for past and present and future mistakes?

You dream of him like you used to, years ago; the ground is shaking and buildings are crumbling and he’s standing at your window. He doesn’t beg or shout, doesn’t pound his fists against the glass as you scramble to open the latches that keep locking – he stands still as a statue, his palm flat against the glass, his eyes soft and understanding.

 _I know_ , he says, a reaffirmation of the words he’d said in reply to your own. _I wouldn’t expect you to_.

You should wake from the dreams feeling satisfied; _he deserves this_ , you should think, _deserves what pain I can give him on a battlefield of my own choosing_.

Instead you wake alone and cold and crying, rubbing your hands on your arms to warm yourself as hiccupping sobs leave you.

People give you a wide berth, you wearing your black and your grief woefully unwell. They whisper behind your back, gossip about the little things they’ve heard; “lost her whole family, she did,” murmurs one, while another says, “she killed them all herself.” They don’t know anything, they never have, blind to what isn’t directly in front of them.

Shay meets you on the street one day – an accident on both of your parts. He’s talking over more renovations for the city while you make your way to a flower stall for a bouquet. You’ve a thought to place them at the elegant and winding gate of the manor, the only place you know to put them. You’ve no idea where Shay’s buried the bodies, if he buried them at all… Hope’s manor is the only connection you have to the Assassins.

You incline your head to him and look away before he can say anything, paying the vendor for his time and his flowers, and walking away quickly.

He doesn’t follow.

It becomes a routine; every couple of days or so you buy some flowers and lay them by the gate. Sometimes you see Shay overlooking his renovations, sometimes you don’t. You can’t decide which are the better days.

A month or so of this sees him approaching, sees him asking to accompany you, sees you agreeing.

“It’s quieter now,” he starts cautiously, “in the city. Quieter than you’re used to, I reckon.” He doesn’t expect a reply. He keeps talking, filling the silence. “The people are prospering.”

They are, you can agree, without the gangs sticking people under their thumbs and demanding payment for protection.

“The _Morrigan_ and her crew are doin’ well,” he continues. His lips quirk near imperceptibly as he tries to smile but sees you nonresponsive. “She was askin’ about the other lady in my life and I couldn’t disappoint her.”

It feels so long ago now since you teased him, since he lay naked on his back on your bed and held you close. It feels so long ago now since you ever gave him the luxury of holding you at all.

“Gist was askin’ for you the other day,” he says a week later. “Was wonderin’ how you were doin’.”

“Surviving,” you answer quietly. You’d told Aoife the same thing once, years ago, when you wore your grief like a bracelet rather than the shroud you were now. She’d always been able to see right through you.

So can he.

“I’m sorry I lied to ya about him,” Shay says. He takes a breath. “I should have been upfront about everythin’ from the beginnin’.”

 _Yes, you should have_.

“I couldn’t have been sure you would still…”

You stop walking. He continues for a handful of steps, head bowed. His hands clench and unclench at his sides.

“I _should_ ’ve told you, I know that now.” He spins, starts to reach for you, decides against it. He looks down. “I can’t change what I did.”

 _No_ , _you can’t_.

He takes a hesitant step forward, more confident when you don’t turn or walk away. A gentle hand cups your elbow; your heart soars at the touch, aches that you want it still after everything. He stands chest to chest with you, the other hand hovering warily over your arm.

“It was selfish of me,” he says, his lips brushing your forehead with every word. “I love you too much to let you go.”

“I can’t forgive you.” The words are a whispered repeat, the last thing you’d said to him when he found you, the same thing you’ve said to yourself on the cusp of sleep. “I _can’t_.”

“Then don’t.”

Your eyes burn with tears. They flow-freely when you pulls you into his embrace, his chin on your head, tucking you closely to him. You clutch to the back of his coat, like you did when you were reunited with him; if you close your eyes, you can pretend that past few years never happened. He’s Shay still, _your_ Shay, from the letters you’ve destroyed and forgotten.

You take his hand.


	12. Little Fall of Rain [Shay Cormac]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "... _and rain...will make...the flowers..._ "

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i got a wickedly cruel request that i _had_ to write.

* * *

“It’s alright.”

“It’s not.” He’s gasping the words around sobs, an arm around your shoulders. He has you tucked against his chest but he’s hunched over you, protecting you from the rain that’s began to pour over the two of you. He’s murmuring your name, cradling you back and forth, his forehead against yours as he murmurs fruitless apologies.

“Stop that.” It’s a fight to speak. He’s squeezing one of your hands while the other lies limply at your side; it’s cold, growing colder still in the early evening chill. His sword, still slick and wet with your blood, lies just out of reach. You could never wield it like he, could never turn the gleaming silver metal on him like he has on you. “It’s… it’s alright.”

There’s so much more you want to say. So much more you _should_ say, you _wish_ you could say. He’s vainly attempting to use your entwined hands to slow the blood that’s oozing consistently from the fatal wound to your chest; he hadn’t known, he _hadn’t_ , and you’re almost grateful you’ll be dead soon if only so you can forget the look on his face as he’d wrenched down your hood…

How things had changed, how slowed down everything had become after the quick pace and frantic defensive movements you’d fought with. How distraught he’d become, how terrified, how horrified, how quickly he’d reached for you, how quickly he’d abandoned his weapon in favour of scooping you into his arms.

He’s still trying to shield you from the rain.

“It’s alright.”

“It’s _not_!” He’s angry now – at himself? At you? He sighs your name; his eyes are watery and red, his bottom lip trembles. “Why didn’t you _leave_?”

“Would… you have?”

His answer is a distressed closing of his eyes, a hastily muffled sob as he drops his face to your shoulder that tells you the answer to your question more than words could.

“I can fix this,” he whispers next, though his voice shakes with uncertainty and pain. He can’t fix this. “I can _fix_ this.”

It’s growing colder and darker. You try to shake your head but hardly have the strength, wish you could say his name and only his name; instead you bury your face in his chest and manage to slowly lift your hand from the ground to weakly caress his face. It’s nothing more than a ghostly brush of your fingertips against his cheek and jaw, nothing that would have any effect on him any other time but now it has him hitching his breath and fighting a sob.

“It’s… alright…”

“I’m sorry,” he murmurs, his lips against your temple now. He presses a kiss full of warmth and love to your hair; his tears are warm against your cheek. Your fingers manage to curl in the leather on his shoulder; you can feel the engraved design of the cross on his shoulder. “I’m so sorry, my love.”

A shuddering inhale of breath is your answer. The words are stuck in your throat. You still can’t say his name, no matter how you ache to. “…it’s…”

You think of Fort Arsenal, of warm nights by the fire and his hands on your bare skin. You think of lazy afternoons on the deck of the Morrigan, of his hands guiding yours of the helm of his beloved ship. You think of early mornings before the sun graces the sky, of dreamlike kisses pressed to your lips as he slips from bed to start his day.

He’s always been warm and comforting.

You’re so tired.

“No, no, no, no.” He sounds so far away now, feels so far away. You don’t feel his warmth nor his comfort. “Stay with me. Don’t -! Open your eyes!” He’s gently shaking you, his insistence annoying to you now. You want to sleep now, you want to lay down this burden of life. “Open – your – _eyes_!”

You can’t.

Your lips barely move as you find the words to speak. “…it’s… alright…”

He’s shaking his head; you can feel it. “It’s not…” He squeezes your shoulders, bundles you closer one final time. When you close your eyes, you recall midnights spent close to him, his steady heartbeat in your ear lulling you to sleep.

It’s steady even now, even as he screams his throat raw and rocks you back and forth in his arms.


	13. Stalkers and Hunters [Shay Cormac]

“We must stop meetin’ like this.”

You roll your shoulders; to anyone else, you look like you’re preparing for a tough fight. You know Shay sees only fatigue and stress, a wistful, longing sigh and a wish for things to return to the way they were.

“Stop stalking me,” you throw back, kicking your heels against the stone wall you’re perched upon.

“Force ‘a habit,” he tells you. “Can’t help it, pet. It’s just so lovely watching that luscious ass of yours as you storm away from me time after time.”

“I’m serious, Shay.” In the face of your stern look, he’s all smiles and jokes, arms spread wide as he shrugs unapologetically. “You can’t keep doing this.”

“I’m not doin’ anythin’,” he answers. His eyes trail over you as you hop off the wall, lingering on the swell of your breasts and the hint of cleavage. He whistles as he appraises your legs, your skin hidden only by thin, cream-coloured tights and knee-high boots. “It’s a wonder you stalkers pass about unseen, y’know,” he muses, drawing closer. “Lookin’ like that, I’d be the first to sing your praises.”

“How do you think I get most of my kills?” You wink deviously, spinning on your heel and making to leave. You hope for Shay to take it as the hint it is: this conversation is over, stop stalking me, stop saving my targets, _stop_.

Of course, he doesn’t.

“Well,” he calls, jogging to catch up to you, keeping up easily once he has. “I know for a fact your Mentor likes to drop from the sky and scream at people. I imagined you’d learned from her.”

You roll your eyes. “I don’t make a habit of alerting my targets to their imminent death, funnily enough.”

“Maybe you should tell your fellow stalkers that. Lord only knows how many of them think it’s the best way.”

“You don’t think I’ve tried?” You stop walking, peering up at his carefree expression with a frustrated one of your own. “I’ve seen a lot of my friends die because of that stupid mistake yet they _continue_ to make it.”

“Alright, alright, easy.” He sets his hands on your shoulders, dips to match your height as you squeeze your eyes shut and avoid what you know to be a gentle and comforting look. He knows how to play you like a violin, knows what strings to pull and strike to make you sing the sweetest notes. “Sorry, I know that’s a touchy subject for you.”

“Just a little,” you mumble furiously. “Now get out of here before someone sees me with you.”

“An’ here was me thinkin’ you liked my company.”

“In private, Shay.” You shove him back, can’t stop the grin that fights its way to your face. “I have a job to do.”

“An’ so do I.” He bends to kiss your cheek before disappearing, weapons clunking and badges glinting in the light. “See you on the battlefield, pet.”

What a pair you both make, you think as you watch him stride away. Shay Cormac, dressed in black and red and armed with a silent gun and a mission. You, dressed in garish yellow and orange, loving him regardless of all he’s done.

You adjust your skirt, hiss through your teeth at the ladder in your tights, and shout to his retreating back, “Try not to die, love!”

His raucous, joyful laughter echoes through the streets.


	14. In the Dark [Shay Cormac]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _The trees are no sanctuary for you here; they are a hunting ground, and your final resting place._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> another halloween '16 fic! _extremely_ AU, but I really enjoyed writing these lol

_Jesus_ , your head is pounding.

There’s a groan on your lips when you push yourself to sit up, rubbing your eyes and stretching your tired muscles. Holy _hell_ , how much did you drink at that party? Was your drink spiked or something? Where the hell are you?

The room is dark, save for the thin sliver of light from the window at your back, and the lone candle you can see in the doorway. It’s small, set on a little bronze plate and the flame flickering gently, inviting, curious. You start to push yourself to your feet, frowning and nervous, swallowing the lump rising in your throat.

What _is_ this? Some kind of hoax? How close is it to Halloween?

There are more candles in the hallway outside the room, set a few feet apart from each other and leaving a trail for you to follow. Some silly part of you thinks it’s a good idea to follow them, to follow the trail and satiate your curiosity. If you were smarter you’d tell yourself to find the front door and fucking _leave_ but _no_ , you’ve never been very good at _sensible_.

“Hello?” you dare to ask aloud but your voice is no louder than a whisper. At least you’re managing to remember every thriller and horror movie you’ve ever watched, ever; don’t shout, don’t _yell_ , don’t do anything _stupid_.

(Except follow the damn _candles_ , apparently.)

They line the bannister of the stairs, dancing in the dark, unnerving with their calm. You take every step slowly, peering around you warily – you can feel eyes on you, can hear whispers. You’re not alone here, you’re sure of it, but whenever you look into the dark, whenever you _squint_ into it, the eyes that watch you, the silhouettes that linger, back away and disappear.

_Okay_. _This is bad_.

The candles lead you towards a room to the left, away from the front door you can see; it’s ominous-looking but right now it seems like the better option.

So why do your feet take you towards the candle-lit room to the left?

The door creaks when it opens, revealing a blazing fireplace and three figures, silhouetted against the flickering flames. There’s a portrait over their heads of a family, a stuffed eagle in front of the window; you see nothing but trees through the glass, nothing but darkness and your own reflection, wide-eyed and afraid.

The figures whisper too low for you to hear, turn slowly, shoulders hunched and heads cocked. Your hand grips the door handle tightly as you start to step backwards; you chance a glance into the main hall, to the door that might be your salvation or your destruction. How fast can you run? Will you make it?

Their fingers are long and clawed, their hands mangled and twisted flesh. Their bones crunch and crack grotesquely as they crouch, readying themselves for the chase, for the _hunt_. Their mouths drop open, revealing sharp and long teeth, curved outwards as their sunken eyes trail over your body; your chest is heaving with your fear, your breaths coming in light sobs.

You just manage to pull the door shut behind you as the creatures lunge, inhuman shrieks filling the air around you as you scramble for the front door.

The trees are no sanctuary for you here; they are a hunting ground, and your final resting place.

“Shit, shit, shit, shit,” you’re gasping, wasting precious breath, throwing yourself past trees you can hardly see. There’s no moonlight to guide you, to light your path, nothing to warn you of the dangers that surround you.

Shrieks fill the air, louder to you, and you manage to side-step a tree stump just before you sprint directly into it; you catch your foot on a root instead, sending you sprawling into the dirt, scrambling to your feet and reaching for whatever you can to help you.

What you don’t expect is a hand to grasp yours, pulling you to your feet with little trouble and tucking you close to their side.

A scream bubbles in your throat –

“Easy lass,” says the voice, rumbling in his chest. _An accent_ , you think, _Irish_? “Not gonna hurt ye.”

In his other hand is a rifle. You blink dazedly at it, shrieking as the leaves rustle overhead, as the branches creak and groan with the weight of –

“ _Down_!” shouts the Irishman, throwing the two of you to the dirt again. The air above your head is disturbed and looking over your shoulder reveals one of those hideous creatures, crouched and ready to pounce, snarling viciously.

The man sighs as he lifts his rifle, taking steady aim despite everything. You get the distinct feeling he’s done this before.

“I’m sorry, Hope,” he says but the words sound hollow.

The creature releases a loud, high keening as it’s shot, its limbs twitch as it curls in on itself, the flesh paling, shrinking. The Irishman sighs softly at your side, a sadness over his face that seems so out of place in the circumstances.

In the creature’s place is a woman, curled in a foetal position but still very much dead.

“C’mon,” says the man, taking your hand and helping you to your feet. “No good sittin’ around waitin’ to be killed, eh?”

“But… Wait… How…?”

“I’m Shay,” says the man, slinging his rifle over his shoulder. He gestures noncommittally towards the creature – the dead woman – and adds, “That’s a demon. They want to kill you. I’m not gonna let that happen. With me?”

You’re not sure, honestly, but what choice do you have?


	15. Silver Scars [Connor]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _You can see scars glistening silver in the light of the full moon, slashes and claw marks on his bared arms and back, reaching up his neck and along his chest._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> another halloween '16 fic! _extremely_ AU.

There’s something else in these woods and it wants you _dead_.

You’re cursing under your breath as you sprint, running faster than you’ve ever thought yourself capable and all but fucking _leaping_ over tree stumps and roots and logs. It’s funny what fear for your life makes you do, funny what it makes you achieve.

Your friends’ laughter haunts your thoughts; they’d dared you to spend the night in the abandoned Davenport Homestead alone and had driven off and broken your agreement. They were supposed to stay with you until you checked the old place out, until you’d made sure you weren’t walking into some drug dealer’s den or something.

 _Some friends they are_ , you think to yourself now, panting and heaving for breath. There hadn’t been a drug dealer in the house – no, the house was blessedly empty but quite obviously still in use, if the blankets and glowing embers in the fireplace were anything to go by.

No, no drug dealers – just a crazy wolf-man waiting for you in the woods, waiting to rip your throat out and end your life.

 _Jesus_ but your friends are _assholes_.

A howl rises into the air behind you, long and _loud_ , terrifyingly _loud_ , and looking over your shoulder does nothing but distract you from what’s ahead.

You tumble to the ground in a mess of tangled limbs, a shriek leaving your lips while the poor soul you’d collided with does nothing but grunt. You’re instantly scrambling to your feet again, lifting clenched fists in front of your body like you know what to do if you’re attacked, and the glower on your face falters when you get a good look at the man before you.

He’s large, all muscles and height, but in the silver glow of the moonlight you see kind features, a look of confusion on his face as he takes you in, turned quickly into thoughtful determination.

“You need to leave,” he tells you, his voice a low rumble.

“No _shit_!” you snap at him, not unintentionally – you’re not a fucking _idiot_ , you _know_ you need to leave! What does he think you’ve been doing all this time? A fun little jog in the woods? Yeah, the wolf-man’s just there for _motivation_!

He blinks, clearly surprised by your bluntness. “I cannot escort you –“

“I’m not asking you to, dumbass!”

He frowns, opens his mouth to speak, and instead whirls towards the other end of the clearing. The wolf-man, crouched and ready to attack, has entered the small space, snarling and growling, amber eyes glowing in the dark.

“Shit,” you gasp, stepping back but unable to pull your eyes away. The man you’d collided with reaches for a weapon at his side, grasping the handle firmly –

“Is that a fucking _tomahawk_?”

“Yes,” he replies calmly. He looks like he knows how to wield it at least, so that’s something. “Get back to the Homestead,” he orders you, barely throwing you a glance over his shoulder. The wolf’s amber eyes follow you as you dart towards the trees. “We shall talk when I return.”

You can see scars glistening silver in the light of the full moon, slashes and claw marks on his bared arms and back, reaching up his neck and along his chest. You see the muscles in his back rippling as the fur erupts through the skin, as he hunches over and snarls in return – a challenge, you wonder, a defence of territory?

In your fear and worry, you realise he’s done this before – _a lot_. In your fear and worry, you realise he’s one of _them_.

You make your way back to the Homestead, never stopping until the door slams shut behind you.

* * *

His name is Ratonhnhaké:ton, he tells you later, as the fire blazes and he keeps a respectable distance.

His name is Ratonhnhaké:ton and he’s a werewolf.


	16. written pages and hunched monsters [Shay Cormac]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> prompt: @thatoneannoyingnerd said: “She wonders how anyone could make him out as a monster when he looks at her like she’s hung the sun, moon and stars.” for Shay?????

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> it's only a drabble because that's all i have time to write lately lolol ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯
> 
> christopher gist drabble up next!

He’s bent over his desk, shoulders hunched while he examines the plethora of naval maps spread across the table like an undesirable buffet. You are quiet, warm within layers of blankets and tucked into the corner between Shay’s bed and the wall of the Morrigan. There’s a book on your knees, deeply satisfying and distracting enough to pass the time, but Shay demands most of your attention. He scribbles down his observations, sighs deeply and twists his lips; his brows draw tightly together in a deep frown, and you are loathe to disturb the peace settled in the comfortable silence around you.

The Morrigan rocks gently, back and forth like a cradle, and the candlelight shadows grasp at the limbs of a tired soldier, entreating him to rest, to sleep, to  _you_. 

The quill scratches against paper. You turn the page of your book. The silence stretches on. 

You tuck your knees closer to your chest, grasp the corners of the blankets tighter around your shoulders. You lightly clear your throat, the sound soft and gentle enough to remind Shay of your presence; you are willing to wait, for as long as he needs, longer still. He has an early morning and a longer day ahead of him, a meeting with the Grand Master he is ill prepared for and likely forgetting the importance of, and his problems seem only to be growing with his fears.

You turn another page of the book. The quill returns to its ink-pot with a quiet  _clink_  and a  _plop_. 

_Shay Cormac_ , are the whispers in the streets and back alleys, behind clasped fingers.  _Shay Cormac_ ,  _the Hunter. Assassin Killer. Templar_.  _Monster_. 

Over the top of your book, you watch the man run his fingers through his loose dark hair, shaking the tangles free and relieving some little amount of stress seeped bone-deep within his body. His chest rises and falls with a deep, defeated exhale. He lifts his head and his eyes find you, glassy and tired and open. You lower your book and grant him full attention, ever so patient and receiving. You hold out a hand to it. 

‘Let it alone,’ you urge him gently.

‘Still so much to be done,’ he murmurs, in a daze brought on by overworked exhaustion and fatigue.

‘It can wait.’ 

You are the voice of reason, low and lilting; the breath of fresh air after hours in the smoke; the light of dawn breaking after the endless night. 

‘Let it alone,’ you repeat, more firmly.

Shay rises, and turns away from the maps spread out before him to cross the room to you. He takes your hand with no further resistance and no small amount of gratitude, collapsing onto the bed by your side as you lower your knees. He lays his head upon your stomach and wraps his arms loosely around you, eyes closed as he breathes you in and slowly tightens his grip.

All is quiet. All is well. 

Shay begins to softly snore, the loose fabric of your shirt bunched loosely between his fingers.

You turn another page of the book.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hmu on [tumblr](https://chesswatchesclouds.tumblr.com), if you want!


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